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I 



The Final Touch 

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always so captivating. 


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White, Pink, Ptesh, Cream and Exquisitely New CAR- 
MEN BRUNETTE SHADESOc Everywhere 

Trial Offer 

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ation so popular we will send you purse size box 
containing two or three weeks’ supply for 12c to 
cover postage and packing, or we will send any 
other shade you prefer. 

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The Final Touch 


ftl 

T' 


MBA 




Brett Lithe. Co., N. Y. 


M King and Ms Court 


T has been said that the 
only throne which re- 
mains unshaken is baby’s. 
He reigns supreme while 
adoring parents seek 
untiringly to give him every comfort. 
How carefully the tender, flower-like 
skin must be bathed, — what gentle 
treatment is necessary if the scalp is to 
be kept healthy, and the hair soft and 
silky. Mothers know all this and many 
of the wisest use Resinol Soap. They 
know it is perfectly pure and will keep 


baby wholesome and sweet, — at the 
same time tending to prevent rashes 
and chafing. 

Besides being so effective for King Baby, 
mothers find Resinol Soap delightful for 
preserving and improving their own com- 
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after being refreshed by its soothing, cleans- 
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For the daily bath Father declares there 
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Resinol Shaving Stick is the best ever 
because it leaves his face free from the drv, 
burning, after-shaving effects. 





Expressing the Arts 




Volume II 


The Magazine of Magazines 

JULY, 1920 

iiniiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiituiiiiiii 

Important Features in This Issue : 

WHO KILLED COCK ROBIN 1 Louis Raymond Reid 

The Gory Trail of Melodrama Across the 
New York Stage This Season 

LITTLE OLD BABYLON Hey wood Broun 

The newest books discussed as only 
Mr. Broun can discuss them. 

THE STORY OF THE THEATER GUILD 

Frederick James Smith 

The interesting real life romance of a 
remarkable band of dramatic pioneers 

THE MIRROR Katharine Metcalf Roof 

An original one-act play dealing 
colorfully with reincarnation. 

THE NEW ART OF CAMERA PAINTING 

Dorothy Donnell 

As exemplified by Nickolas Muray, picture 
making is no longer a mere matter of technique. 

REFLECTIONS OF A GENTLE CYNIC 

Lisa Y saye Tarleau 

Another whimsical philosophic essay. 

INTERVIEWS WITH HELEN MacKELLAR 
AND LENORE ULRIC 
% 

Up-to-the-Minute Departments devoted to the Stage 
and Current Fashions 



Number ii 




BREWSTER PUBLICATIONS, INC. 

SHADOWLAND 

DTDT monthly by Brewster Publications, Inc., a New York Corporation with its principal offices at 
177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. Eugene V. Brewster, President and Editor-in-Chief; Eleanor V V 
Brewster, Treasurer; E. M. Heinemann, Secretary. 

Frederick James Smith, Managing Editor. 

Subscription $3.50 a year, in advance, including postage in the U. S., Cuba, Mexico and Philippines; in 
Canada, $4.00 a year; in foreign countries, $4.50.. Single copies, 35 cents. Postage prepaid. One and 
two-cent stamps accepted. Subscribers must notify us at once of any change of address, giving both 
old and new address. 

Entered at the Brooklyn, N. Y., Post Office as Second-Class matter. 

Copyright, 1920, by Brewster Publicati®ns, Inc., in the United States and Great Britain. 

177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 


rnniMF 



SHADOWLAND 





OUR COLOR PLATES: 


Reproductions of original paintings by 
Julian Rix, N. A., Norman Jacobsen and 
Leo Sielke, Jr., together with a color 
impression of William S. Hart by 
Wynn Holcomb, and 

Marguerite Qill 

A dancing favorite in musical comedy and 
vaudeville 

Olga Petrova 

The distinguished star of the drama and 
the cinema who is now making 
a vaudeville tour 

Blanche M cQarity 

One of the four winners of the 1919 Fame 
and Fortune Contest conducted by 
the Brewster Publications 

Doris Kenyon 

A favorite in motion pictures and in footlight 
comedy 











SW/XDOWLAND 


Two Studies of 
Lada, 

the Dancer 


Page Twelve 







Si-IA.DOWLA.ND 



On these two 
pages are four 
unusual camera 
studies by 
Nickolas Muray 



Muray is more 
than an expert 
mechanician of 
the camera. He 
sees people in 
the terms of 
pictorial com- 
positions and 
he has a 
keen power to 
analyze person- 
alities 




iWADOVLANO 


The 

New 

Art 

of 

Camera 

Painting 

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiHiiiiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 

By Dorothy 
Donnell 




J UST south- 
east of the 
Washing- 
ton Arch lies 
the quaint re- 
gion of tangled, 
twisting lanes 
and old, drow- 
s y , gabled 
houses which 
the artist folk of New York term, lov- 
ingly, the Village; and here, among the 
self-conscious picturesqueness of tea- 
room, puppet theaters and Bohemian table 

d’hotes, live many eager and ardent men 
and women who are brave enough to be 
pioneers in art, to explore for beauty in 
new and untried ways. Some of these 
dare to write plays that are like life in- 
stead of like drama; some paint pictures 
according to their own ideas and visions 
instead of according to rule ; some make 
costumes along lines of grace instead of 
fashion. 

On a crumbling six-panelled door on 
Macdougal Street, beside “Ye Silhouette 
Shoppe,” a modest card announces Nicho- 
las Muray, Character Portraiture, and up 
three flights of uncarpeted stairs in an 
attic studio, with no other aids than a 
whitewashed wall, a black velvet curtain, a 
green painted kitchen chair, this young 
Hungarian artist-photographer is making 
camera compositions that lift photography 
from the level of a mechanical trade to a 
place among the fine arts. 

( Continued on page 72) 


Nickolas Muray studied 
art in Budapest and 
modelling in Paris. Then 
he went to Berlin to 
investigate photography. 
Aside from all this 
Muray went thru a 
heroic and picturesque 
preparation for his 
career 


Page Fifteen 





Swadowla.no 



Photograph by Maurice Goldberg 


Page Sixteen 


SwADOWLANQ 



Both Photographs by Charlotte Fairchild 


The Sakliaroffs have been attracting 
widespread interest upon their 
American appearances. Entirely dis- 
tinct from the Russian Ballet, they 
have created their own dance reper- 
toire. Since coming to this country 
from Switzerland, the Sakliaroffs’ ap- 
pearances have been in the main con- 
nected with the Chicago Opera Com- 
pany. On these pages are two unusual 
studies of Clotilde Sakharoff, and 
just above is a unique portrait of 
Alexander Sakharoff 


The Newest 
Russian Dance 
Missionaries 


Page Seventeen 



SwA.DOWLA.NC> 



Photograph by Charlotte Fairchild 


FLORENCE REED 

Popular Star of tlie Cinema and the Stage 


Page Eighteen 







ORIENTAL BAZAAR 

From a Watercolor Drawing 
By Norman Jacobsen 



SuADOWLAND 



Photograph by Alfred Cheney Johnston 


LOUISE GLAUM 

\ new Portrait Study of the Popular Film Star 


Pape Twettty-Th rrr 



Helen 
MaeKellar: 
Stage Find 
of 1920 

H KLKN Mac- 
KKLLAR is 
come out of the 
West, of Scotch 
Presbyterian parent- 
age and similar prece- 
dent. In her child- 
hood and young girl- 
hood the stage was 
spoken of with hated 
breath and piously 
elevated - eyebrows. 
Yet she, personally, 
always felt the lure 
of it. So much for 
environment. She is 
college-bred, and 
spoke of the college 
days when she and 
the other members 
of her class dreamed 
dreams of the things 
they would do, the 
far ways they would 
go. the castles they 
would rear, when 
once they should be 
out in the great 
world. 

“I talk with some 
o f the m n o w , oc- 
casionally,” said Miss 
MaeKellar, “and won- 
der that they seem to 
have so completely 
forgotten those rather 
splendid visions. 
Wonder they can be 
satisfied with the nar- 
row lives they have 
led. / couldn't be!" 

“Then you think 
that a career is every- 
thing ?” 

“I think that to 
create is everything— 
according to your 
separate and indi- 
vidual need. All of 


Helen MaeKellar came 
out of the West, of Scotch 
Presbyterian parent- 
age and similar precedent. 
In her childhood the stage 
was spoken of with bated 
breath. Yet, she always 
felt the lure of it 


Photograph by 

Alfred Cheney Johnston 



Si-IADOWLANU 



The Story of Helen MaeKellar 

By Gladys Hall 


us crave self-expression. The great thing is 
to find the medium.” 

‘‘Some women consider children, marriage 
in the home sufficient,” I suggested, apropos 
of the aforementioned college friends. 

“That is not my conception of sufficiency,” 
smiled Miss MaeKellar, “any more than it is 
my conception of motherhood, the purely 
physical side. The old-fashioned mother was 
a drag rather than a spur. We have gone on.” 

“What 'do you think of tradition?” 

“So many fetters holding, or trying to hold, 
us down.” 

“Mostly successful, or otherwise?” 

“That depends on the person and his, or 
:her, will to do.” 

Miss MaeKellar gives the immediate im- 


Photograph by Abbe 


p r e s s i o n of a 
thoughtful per- 
son. There is 
nothing of the 
profession a 1 
stage woman in 
her man ner or 
in her attitude. 
She is one who 
has reached her present sphere of activity 
thoughtfully, consciously, absorbingly. She 
will go on in the same way. There is a 
wistfulness in her smile, admitting both of 
wistfulness and humor; there is a vision in 
her far-away gaze that seems to be seeing 
far things the while she talks of the im- 
mediate present, of the me and you . . . 
“Do you know,” she said, “I believe 1 have 
much more curiosity about you than you 
have about me. I am dying to ask you any 
number of questions. When, for instance, 
did you begin to write? And why?” 

That was an opportunity for reversal! 
But my curiosity gained the upper hand, 
thru right of way. no doubt, and we reas- 
sumed our respective interrogative posi- 
tions. Not before, however. Miss Mac- 
Kellar had expatiated on the subject of her 
enormous interest in the individual. “Every 
new person I meet,” she told me, “is a new 
(Continued on page 81) 


Vliss MaeKellar believes 
that tradition is as so 
nany fetters holding; or 
trying to hold — us down. 
‘The result,” says Miss 
MaeKellar, “d e p e n d s 
upon the person and his. 
or her, will to do” 




Page Twenty-Five 



KICHAKD BEJNJNt'lT 

the dreamer misfit in 
Ku gene O’Neill'., splendid 
drama. "Beyond the Horizon," 
Mr. Bennett has contributed 
one of the best histrionic bits 
of t lie stage year 


l'i!</r Tui'iity-Si.i 


SI-lA.DQWL.ANO 







SuA.DOWL.AND 


mm 


In Greenwich 
Village 


Special Portrait Studies byN'ickolas 
Mu ray 

\t the right, is Harry Kemp, poet 
of the Village as v\ ell as the open 
road; below, is Bobby Edwards, 
exponent de luxe of the ukulele; 
and. lower right. Ilonka Karasz, 
a feminine artist of distinction 


I'age Twenty-Seven 



SuADOWLAND 



An 

Avalanche 


Photograph by Shaw Pub. Co. 


Adelle Irving of 44 
Boylston Street, Boston, 
Mass., wins a place on 
the Shadowland Honor 
Roll. She has been the 
model for a number of 
prize winning photo- 
graphic studies 


T HERE was once a poet 
who sang into immor- 
tality a paean of praise 
for the beauty of the world. 
‘‘A thing of beauty is a joy 
forever/’ he chanted, and the 
world applauded his wisdom. 

However, had the poet 
gazed upon the photographs 
which have come pouring into our offices from every part 
of the country, we doubt if he would have been able to 
retain this wisdom, for in response to the roll-call of 
opportunity sounded by the Fame and Fortune Contest in 
Shadowland, Tin: Motion Picturk Magazine and 
The Motion Picture Classic, thousands of the most 
beautiful young girls in America have sent in their pho- 
tographs, — and everywhere there is being shown the keen- 
est interest in the outcome of the contest. 


An interesting an- 
nouncement for the 
Fame and Fortune 
contestants is to the 
following effect : 

The judges’ com- 
mittee will sit on July 
1st and 2nd, between 
the hours of ten and 
four, at 175 Duffield 
Street. Brooklyn. X. 
Y., to interview per- 
sonally all contestants 
who can make it con- 
venient to appear at 
that time. 

Tests will be taken 
before the motion pic- 
ture camera at Ros- 
lyn, L. I., X. Y., on 
the following Satur- 
day, Sunday an d 
Monday of all those 
contestants who seem 
qualified to be chosen 
for the final honor 
roll. 

This is being done 
in order to alleviate 
the pressure of the 
grand finale of the 
contest. 

We have endeav- 
ored to make this 
contest unique in 
every way possible. 
We have been per- 
fectly honest and 
non-partial in our 
judgment and have 
played no favorites. 
Last year we p r o - 
duced a two-reel fea- 
ture and called it “A 
Dream of Fair 
Women.’' In it there 
appeared the twenty- 
five honor roll mem- 
bers of the 1919 Fame and Fortune Contest, together 
with the final four winners. The success of this two- 
reel feature, which was released by the Fine Arts Pic- 
tures, 130 West 46th Street, Xew York City, was un- 
precedented. It seemed as if everybody wanted to see 
what the contest winners looked like and what thev could 
do on the screen. Emboldened by this success, this year 
we intend to produce a five-reel feature drama which will 
give ample opportunity for the honor roll members and 
winners to prove their merit. 

“Love’s Redemption” is the title of the five-reel feature 
play that is being produced by us. which will include 
many of the contestants of the 1920 Fame and Fortune 
Contest. Blanche McGarity, winner of last year’s con- 
test, has been chosen to play the leading part of Peggy. 
Dorian Romero has been selected as the “heavy.” Ed- 
ward Chalmers, Alfred L. Rigali, Mrs. Mayer, Bunty 
Manly and Erminie Gagnon have also been assigned 


Page Twenty-Eight 




SuADOWLAND 


of 

Beauty 


parts. Among the 
distinguished men 
who will probably 
take part in the play 
are Edwin Markham, 
the poet; Hudson 
Maxim, inventor, and 
Judge Frederick E. 

Crane of the Court 
of Appeals of Xew 
York State. Most of 
the scenes will be 
filmed in and around 
the Brewster estate at 
Roslyn. L. I., and the 
taking will be con- 
tinued well into Sep- 
tember. Each issue 
of every one of our 
s e v e r a 1 publications 
will hereafter contain 
interesting news of 
the progress of the 
play. 

Now that the con- 
test is drawing to its 
close, it seems as if a 
conflagration had 
struck the country, 
for the photographs 
come tumbling in 
pell-mell, together 
with telegrams and 
special delivery let- 
ters. daily inundating 
the offices of the 
Brewster Publica- 
tions. 

The readers of our 
magazines seem sud- 
denly to have realized 
that this contest 
means a really sincere 
opportunity for them 
to take advantage of. 

T hey have b e c o m e 
convinced that the 
long-awaited chance 

for the realization of their ambitions is being offered 
them and that their probability of winning is as good as 
the next fellow’s. 

Another fact which has -greatly pleased its is the in- 
crease in the number of male entries. At first these were 
greatly in the minority, but emboldened, perhaps, by our 
insistence that the contest was open to every one, photo- 
graphs of men from all parts of the country have begun 
to pour in. We welcome this innovation as an evidence 
that the contest has become an important factor to our 
readers, for every one well knows that, as a rule, there is 
difficulty in convincing a man of the sincerity of this sort 
of thing and that most men seem* to hail from that much 
abused State of Missouri ! 

We have spared no effort to make this contest a memo- 
rable one in the history of moving picture enthusiasts. 
We endeavor thru the medium of this contest to bring the 
firm industry and the movie '’‘fan” in closer contact. 



Photograph by J. H. Reeves 


Alma Gwendolyn Greene, 
the other Shadowland 
Honor Roll winner, is an 
Alabama girl, Jasper be- 
ing her home. She has 
had no previous drama- 
tic experience 


The judges of the contest 
will be Mary Bickford, Mme. 

Olga Petrova, Howard Chand- 
ler Christy. Thomas Tnce, J. 

Stuart IMackton, Maurice 
Tourneur, Samuel Lumiere, 

Carl Laemmle, Jesse Lasky, 

David Belasco, Blaiyche Bates 
and Eugene V. Brewster. 

I he Siiadowi.and honor roll winners here pictured 
are : 

Adelle Irving, 44 Boylston Street, Boston, Mass. She 
has dark-brown hair and dark-blue eyes. Her com- 
plexion is brunette. She has been the model for a 
of prize-winning photographic studies. 

Alma Gwendolyn Greene, of Jasper, Ala., has 
previous dramatic experience. She has blue- 


number 
Miss 
had 


no 


grey eyes and fair skin; while her hair is dark brown. 


Page Twenty-Nine 


m wss&am 






California Tennis 


Gouverneur Morris, tlie novelist and au- 
Llior of a dozen or so "best sellers,” and 
Maurice Maeterlinck, Blue Bird philoso 
pher de luxe, have been visiting the movie 
colony in Los Angeles. With M. Maeter- 
linck was Mine. Maeterlinck. Herewith 
are three glimpses of Mr. Morris and 
Mme. Maeterlinck upon the Hollywood 
tennis courts, whereon only film stars 
usually play 





T<u ie Thirty 





Photograph by Cbnvb.tff E nrrhiM 


IRENE BORDONI 

flip piquant Parisian star of “\s You Werp." 




Photograph by Ira I). Schwarz 


IN THE COLORFUL INDIES 

Josephine Victor in the new Laurence Eyre drama, “Martinique 


Page Thirty-Two 


Suadowland 








SwAD OWLA.NO 


The New 
Florodora 


Photograph by Campbell Studio 


That pleasant musical memory, “Florodora,” 
has been revived at the Century Theater, 
New York. Eleanor Painter has scored in 
the famous role of Dolores. Above and 
below are glimpses of the 1920 sextette 


Photograph by White 


Page Thirty-Three 








(Miotogrrapli l » y MollVlt 

MADGE BELLAMY 

All last season little Miss Bellamy, wlio is just seventeen anil a Texas girl, played the 
"might-have-been” daughter with William Gillette in “Dear Brutus.” and. according to mam 
critics, played it belter than Helen Hayes. After living a few years in Denver, she went to 
school at St. Mary's Hall, San Antonio. Two years ago, she came to Mew York and went on 
the stage in Andreas Dippel's “The Love Mill.” After that she succeeded Patricia Collinae 
in “Pollyanna.” 


I'ikji Thirty-/’ om 






Suds 


Short Story Based Upon Mary Pickford’s Newest Photoplay 

By Jane Ward 


T i J [■; air in the French Hand Laundry was viscid with 
steam. warm, wet and scented with yellow soap, 
starch, and damp drying garments of assorted sex 
that hung limply in the dimness with ghastly suggestive- 
ness of a wholesale execution. The windows were filmed 
with a grey fog that occasionally condensed and trickled 
down in drops, affording wavery glimpses of the outside 
world, like objects seen under water. 

It was Saturday. To the French Hand Laundry that 
meant a day of frenzied 
hurrying, of lost tempers, 
of continuous telephone 
communications from an 
anxious London seeking 
news of its Sunday shirts. 

Madame Jeanne Gallifilet, 
the proprietress, bv mid 
forenoon was a dis- 
traught creature with 
wild eyes and disheveled 
hair, and still wilder and 
more disheveled lan- 
guage. She stood by the 


counter and tied up packages, lamenting the while. 

‘‘A thousand thunders! Where is that son of a snail? 
Do they then think that laundry carries itself? Am I to 
leave my iron in mid-air to in all the way to Hammer- 
smith with a greengrocer's undershirt ? Amanda ! 
Amanda! The French Lingerie on Grosvenor Square 
must have its chemise! The Boiled Shirt on Bleeker 
lacks socks to wear ait promenade in Hyde Park to- 
morrow! Amanda — Mon Dieu ! Where art thou, worth- 
less one ?” 

“Is that the way — I 
arst you, Horace, is that 
the way to talk to a 'igh 
horned lidy ?” Under the 
counter a head, one 
mass of tangled yellow 
curls wagged indignantly, 
as Amanda Afflick sur- 
veyed the shapeless object 
on her knees, “ ‘er as 
wouldn’t be given the job 
of scrubbin’ floors in me 
father's castle — ” 


SUDS 

Fictionized by special permission from the scenario 
based upon the stage play, “ ’Op o’ Me Thumb.’’ originally 
produced by Charles Frohman. Produced in motion pic- 
tures by Mary Pickford for release thru United Artists. 
Directed by Jack Dillon. The cast : 


Amanda Afflick Mary Pickford 

Horace Greensmith Albert Austin 

Mme. Jeanne Gallifilet Mme. Rose Dione 

Benjamin Pillsbury Jones Harold Goodwin 


Page Thirty-Five 



Sw/XDOWLAND 



‘Amanda! Name of a name of a pig! Amanda — 
“Wos you addressing me, Ma’am?” the dandelion head 
appeared reluctantly from the dark recesses of the counter, 
followed by a small, pointed face, and lastly by a bony 
little figure clad in an incredibly faded garment whose 
wideness of waist betokened a former, plumper owner. 
Madame Gallifilet’s gaze passed these familiar details to 
rivet itself upon the purple thing dangling from Amanda’s 
fingers. 

"Zat shirt!” she reached across the counter and shook 
the culprit so earnestly that the object in her hands flew 
out of them and slid along the floor, sleeves outstretched 
like a batter sliding for a base. “Again, zat shirt! 
Do I pay you, I ask, for sitting under ze countin' wiz a 
shirt? Name of a name of a name! And half London 
stairk nakeed wizout zair laundry!” 

“Balmy in the crumpet!" remarked the girl in the red 
shirtwaist to her neighbor without lowering her voice 
from reasons of false delicacy. 

, "Off her onion!” agreed the girl with the pompadour. 
Amanda tossed her head haughtily as she deftly balanced 
the huge basket upon it. 

“When Horace Greensmith, Esquire, comes for his 
shirt,” she told them with spirit, "and tykes me away 
maybe you wont say them cruel woids ! When I comes 
into me estate I’ll give you me cast-off gownds and maybe 
you’ll catch a beau among the loiver classes.” 

She stepped out of the watery atmosphere of the Hand 
Laundry, and on the sidewalk paused to sniff delightedly. 
There was no new scent in the fetid air of London smoke 

and un- 
washed 
life, there 
was no new 
sight in the 
dingy 
street yet 
manda 


with the wisdom of Youth, knew that at last it was 
Spring. The pale sunlight was warm on her sharp little, 
lifted face. "You’ll be coinin’ for your shirt soon, 

Horace!” Amanda murmured wistfully, "soon now ” 

A decrepit wagon, drawn by what looked like a rough 
sketch of a horse that had never been finished, drew up 
at the curb and a very long boy got out in sections with 
the effect of assembling himself on the sidewalk. He 
smiled at Amanda, and a miracle happened. When he 
smiled he became positively beautiful. “Wot ho," he 
greeted her, "Say. T see a flower today, a yaller one! 
Hi Lavender!” This to the horse which showed symp- 
toms of sitting down. The ancient beast rolled a plaintive 
eye toward the laundry, whence came Madame, bearing 
piles of bundles that must be carried from Hammersmith 
to the Strand, and sighing noisily, leaned his moth-eaten 
head against the nearby lamp-post and wept. 

"Poor Lavender!" Amanda soliloquized as she turned 
hastily away, "we’re both dubs but just wait! A little 
feedin’ and a little grooming an’ we’d both be as stylish 
as any. Now when my stern father relents and welcomes 

back his orphink child ” 

A small urchin, a banana clasped to his chest, cata- 
pulted around the corner and into Amanda. She sat down 
promptly upon the pavement, the basket and its contents 
intact at her side. As she murmured prayers of gratitude 
for its safety an indignant Italian, proprietor of the 
escaping banana, leaped full into the basket, scattering 
shirts, undergarments and collars broadcast. Madame 
Gallifilet, witness of the accident, bore down upon 
Amanda, for once speechless, and that unfortunate, cast- 
ing a wild glance around, swept the bedraggled ruins of 
the laundry into the basket, tripped over a shirt-tail and 
disappeared down the chute by which the baskets were 
sent from the street to the basement. 

Madame who had seized one handle of the basket 
perforce followed while a pleased and grateful audi- 
ence of urchins and passers-by cheered the neatness of 
the performance heartily. At the bottom of the chute 
Amanda, in stricken silence, watched the stout propri- 
etress pick herself up, dust herself off stonily, and deliver 
her ultimatum. “Every one of those things shall be wash 
theese night, do you understan’ A thousand thunders ! 

\Yas ever such an unfor- 
tunate ! My beautiful 
shirts ! My excellent 
chemises !" 

At closing time the girl 
of the red shirtwaist 
paused beside 
the tub to give 
consolation, 
mingled with de- 
rision. , '“Poor 
little ’Op o’ me 
Thumb !" said 
she, “It’s crool 
hard on a real 


“Wos you address- 
ing me. Ma’am?” 
The dandelion head 
appeared reluctant- 
ly from the dark 
recesses of the 
counter 


Page Thirty-Six 





SuADOWLAND 





lvdy to 'ave to do such meneeal 
woik." 

Amanda raised her little pointed 
chin at the chorus of snickers. 

"When Horace ;comes for his shirt" 
she began staunchly. "I'll lav me 
jewelled hand in lus an 

"You aint never showed us your 
jewels !" winked the pompadour, "an' 
all we ever seen of your fine Horace 
is ’is shirt, an' no great of a shirt 
neither — eight an' a sixpence all 
told." 

"[ dont wear me tiaras and 
di'mond rings to me woik," Amanda 
explained loftily, "but at me home 
I've got great chests full. h ou 
should see me when I dress for din- 
ner in pink sating with a train I” 

The girls laughed scornfully, but 
with a certain amount of awe. They 
knew that she was lying but such a 
sublimity of lying was almost mag- 
nificent. They drew closer. "If 
vou're such a fine lady what are you 
doing here?" sniffed one. 

'Ale father, the Juke," Amanda 
was ready for her, "wanted me to 
grow up without any rank or do es 
or carriages so s to be loved for my- 
self alone," she deftly soaped a shirt- 
waist. pushed back the damp hair 
from her cheeks with one peaked 
elbow and went on enjoyingly, "twas 
on a cruel cold winter night, and me 
father 'ad me locked up in me room 
at the castle. Suddinklv the windy was flung open and 
Horace comes into the room. I Ie knelt at me feet and 
asked for me hand — ” here a pair of pajamas was 
wrung out without interruption to the tale. “ ‘Beware, 
Horace.' I says, but too late. The Juke stands in the 
door. AYot ho! Varlet,’ he says, ‘minion, be gone 
‘ence. I refuse my consent— leave the ’ouse.’ ‘I’m 
going to work in the diamond mines and come back 
for er,' my Horace says, ‘for I love er enough to 
give me life for ’er — to give the very shirt off me back 
for er!' and with that he takes off 'is shirt and ands it 
to me with a low bow and goes. And me father turns me 
out into the world to he loved for meself alone." 

A triumphant flourish of a long spinsterly white wool 
stocking completed the tale. "And so," finished Amanda, 
"I’m keeping the shirt done up fresh every week in 
memory rff my Horace who's a-going to come and lead 
me out of this life of bondage. 

"Mice in ’er attic," scoffed the girls as they went, then 
pityingly, "Poor little 'Op o' me Thumb!" 

For four hours of the night Amanda was the Juke's 
daughter, then suddenly she became aware of strange 
sounds. From the street outside came the tap, tap of a 
bobby’s night-stick. Amanda knew very well what the 
sound was but — her lively imagination suggested — it 
might be a robber or even a murderer. The windows 
rattled fretfully under the fingers of the wind, but sup- 
pose it were a ghost escaped from Westminster trying 
to get in after its clothes? A little grey shadow slipped 
across the sodden floor, a mouse, as she knew very well, 
but her small, weary face grew pale and she buried her 
head in the damp shirt she was washing so tenderly and 
burst into a muffled wail. "Oh, Horace! Horace Green- 
smith. F squire. To-Be-Called-For, why dont you come 
after your shirt ?. Oh, you was so awful handsome, 
Horace ! I aint much to look at on the outside, but inside 
I'm perfectlv beautiful. Horace. I've got a blonde soul 


Photograph by Abbe 

with curl v hair and blue “I dont wear me tiaras 

es •" ' and di’mond rings to 

- g, . . me work,” Amanda ex- 

She got out the irons, pre- plained loftily 

sently, heaped coal on the fire 
and began the endless task of 

ironing. The cold, grey light of early morning was 
showing thru the windows when she finished the last 
piece, folded it carefully and put on her shapeless old 
coat and draggled felt hat with its single limp feather. 
One shirt she took from the pile and laid away on a 
shelf with a ' tag fastened thru the button-hole. "To 
be called for." She had just done up that shirt for the 
twentieth time. A memory came to her of that one, 
ecstatic glimpse of its owner, tall, with dark romantic 
curls, red lips that curled over white )teeth when he 
smiled — and he had smiled at her ! She had had that 
frail, unsubstantial foundation for her piteous dreaming. 
She touched the shirt softly with her small, red, tired 
fingers. 

"You and me know it’s all made up, Horace," she 
smiled, "but we wont let the rest know it ! I guess I got 
a right to a castle and a juke father and all that !" 

By Monday afternoon Amanda was the Juke's daugh- 
ter again. She was free for a delightful hour from the 
laundry, thanks to a certain silk crepe waist that had to 
be delivered to Grosvenor Square. On the way back 
she dallied daringly, watching the fenced-in square of 


Page Thirty-Seven 


Smaoowuand 



Amanda's faith was proof 
against jibes. There was 
Spring in the air, even in 
(lie steamy, sudsy air of 
the laundry— and Spring’s 
magic 


green and the glow of daffo- 
dils in a bed in the center with 
fast heating heart. 1 he stir 
of life that sent their roots up- 
ward bravely to the light thru 
the sour city soil trembled thru 
her whole meager body. 
Something within her groped for the light- 

The rich perfume of a passing fishmonger’s barrow re- 
minded her of the penny the crepe waist owner had given 
her. She considered thoughtfully, l’eyond an old woman 
with a trav of dried lavender flowers set up shrill com- 
petition for her trade. Amanda's soul decided on the 
lavender, her stomach clamored for the fish. She com- 
promised. Fish in hand, and munching enjoyingly, she 
paused by the sweet scented tray and sniffed deeply. 
Thnm!" gloated Amanda, then sociably. "I got a horse 
named Lavender, a fiery charger. Fvery day they bring 
him to the castle 

The old woman spoke coarsely and with conviction. 
The gist of her remarks, expurgated, was that she did 
not believe Amanda. Pained, Amanda, wandered back to 
the French Hand Laundry, sharing her fish with a dog 
along the wav. On the curbing sat hunched up, a deso- 
late figure. When he saw Amanda, he smeared a sleeve 
hurriedly across his face but she wasn't to be deceived 
T>en Pillsbury !" she cried, 'AVotbs the matter' An 
where's Lavender'" 


‘‘Gone," said Hen heavily, "The 
Madame got mad becos the bobby 
said he was too old to work an' she 
sen f'r the boneyard men. They took 
'im away in a wagon." He tried to 
speak philosophically. " 'L got a ride, 
anvhow with some'un else a-pulling 
the cart !’’ 

"They're goin' to make Lavender 
into glue':" Pale horror sat upon 
Amanda's small, unbeautiful fea- 
tures. One hard little hand dived 
down among intimate recesses of her 
dingv garments and reappeared 
holding a crumpled, unopened 
brown envelope. Hen’s cry of pro- 
test fell upon heedless air as .Aman- 
da disappeared on desperate legs 
down the street. 

" 'Fr pay!" he breathed, awed, 
"I'll be blowed! She's a good un, is 
Amanda, a rare un!" So might have 
spoken a plumed knight of old about 
his ladye fair. 

Old Lavender faced imminent dis- 
solution philosophically. He had 
drawn heavy laundry wagons for 
fourteen of his sixteen years, all of 
which had been lived in London. He 
had never seen a green field, nor felt 
the free wind blowing thru his mane, 
yet he. too, had had his dreams. 
Perhaps now they would come true 
He faced his executioner with a lift 
of his heavy old head, and nickered 
gently, plaintively. 

Into the yard sped a small, frowzy 
whirlwind, struck the stoutish man 
with the leveled revolver amidships 
and crumpled him. Amanda's face 
was wan. She held the brown en-' 
velope into his face as tho for him 
to sniff, jerking an elbow backward 
toward the patient old beast. "I 11 
buy im. I yke me pay — it s all I got 
but we aint neither o' us artv eaters, me an' Lavender' 
An then I'll be coming into me fortune soon-—' 

A half hour later Lady Agatha Burks, the widow of 
a Colonial Governor-General .whose form of self-ex- 
pression was flannel and soup bones for the pool, diiving 
thru the purlieus of Featherbed Land, was amazed to see 
a very small girl apparently pulling a very large, very 
reluctant horse up the steep outside staircase of a tene- 
ment house to the vociferous cheers of several chimne\ 
sweeps, and the disapproval of the other tenants. Lady 
Agatha, rapping with a large, shapely gloved hand on 
the. window of her carriage descended. 

In ten minutes she had the tale of Amanda, Daughter 
of a Juke, and her fiery charger, high) Lavender, who 
would "look fierier when he ad a little feedin . Odd’y 
enough she found nothing to smile at in this scrawny 
slum child's romancing. 

■Tint — till yon — er — come into your estate," she asked 
respectfully, of Amanda, “you must have a place to keep 
vour—er— charger. Xow suppose you trust him to me. 

I live in the country outside of London where there are 
green pastures, and other horses to keep him company, 
and you could come and see him sometimes-—" 

•y'[ e and Horace!" Amanda supplemented breath- 

lesslv, "Ow! Wouldn't that be 'Favenly ' ‘a< nice a« rid- 
ing the steam calliope at Fmstead almost. 

So then Lady Agatha heard about Horace too. and the 
(Continued on poge 651 


Pane Thirty-Eight 


SuADQWLAND 



Two 
Ben Ali 
Haggin 
Tableaux 


Above, Mr. Haggin’s 
scena, “The Witch- 
ing Hour,” in the 
Ziegfeld Midnight 
Frolic and, below, 
Mr. Haggin’s “The 
Feast,” a tableau in 
the 9 o’Clock Revue 


Exclusive photograph by 
Alfred Cheney Johnston 


Page Thirty-Nine 





SWADOWLANO 



The Story 
of the 
Theater 
Guild 


By Frederick 


James Smith 


M any of the 
professional 
critics of the 
theater have taken it 
upon themselves to 
condemn the Theater 
Guild because, in the 
year of its existence, 
not a single native 
dramatist of impor- 
tance has been re- 
vealed — and no real 
effort to develop a 
new personality has 
appeared upon the 
surface. 

Which may or may 
not be beside the 
point. At least, the 
Theater Guild has 
forged its ways along 
a precarious path to a 
certain — and distinct 
—niche in the Ameri- 
can theater. Abso- 
lutely without finan- 
cial backing and ex- 
isting wholly upon a 
cooperative basis, the 
guild has fought its 
fight successfully for 
nearly two seasons. 

Literally the guild is a successor to the Washington 
Square Players. When that once exceedingly promising 
organization expired, three interested Washingtonians got 
together and, actuated by a belief that the old standard 
could still be carried forward, created the guild. 

The creation process was not an easy one. “The idea 
first developed with Lawrence Langner, Phillip Moeller 
and I,” says Helen Westley, in relating the guild’s birth. 
“Rollo Peters joined us and our meetings drew thirty or 
forty people interested in the drama. From these meet- 
ings was sifted a board of directors comprising Helen 
Freeman, Mr. Langner, Mr. Moeller, Lee Simonson, 
Maurice Wertheim and myself. Mr. Peters became the 
first executive director.” It is interesting to note that 
the same board of directors still maps out the destinies 
of the guild. 

So the guild, created upon a cooperative basis, came 
into being. The French Players had just left the Garrick 
Theater and the guild managed to secure that house. It 
has been its home ever since. 

Where the Washington Square Players had devoted 
their time to one-act plays, with an exception or two, the 
guild resolved to present full-length dramas. Now ’it is 


Photograph by Ira D. Schwarz 


Scene from the Theater 
Guild’s production of St. 
John Erine’s “Jane 
Clegg” with Margaret 
Wycherly and Dudley 
Digges 


far more difficult to ade- 
quately do a play running an 
entire evening than a program 
of short playlets, but the 
guild organizers felt that they 
must rise or fall thru exerting 
their complete scope. 

On April 4, 1919, the guild presented “Bonds of Inter- 
est,” adapted from the Spanish of Jacinto Benavente. 
In the treasury was exactly $500. No particular interest 
was manifested by the general public in the production 
and a few weeks later St. John Ervine’s “John Ferguson” 
was offered. On the night that “John Ferguson” opened 
— May 12, 1919 — exactly $19.45 remained in the treasury 
and a few weeks later St. John Ervine’s “John Ferguson” 

To Mr. Langner, of the board of directors, belongs the 
credit for securing “John Ferguson.” This drama, it is 
true, had been presented by the Dublin National Theater 
and also in England, but it was only known in this 
country in published form. Yet the play had been avail- 
able for five years. 

Mr. Langner read it and cabled to Ervine, who, 
wounded and ill after his service in Flanders, was con- 


Page Forty-One 



SuADOWLAND 



response of the season from the public. Then, on February 23, 
the guild offered Ervine’ s “Jane Clegg.” 

With “Jane Clegg” the guild launched into a second period 
of high prosperity. The second Ervine play doubled the 
record of its predecessor, “John Ferguson,” even in its first 
weeks and, at this writing, is still running at the Garrick. Its 
popularity temporarily side-tracked the guild’s five-plays-a- 
year policy, but the organization has lived up to its promises by 
offering Strindberg’s “Dance of Death” for a series of special 
matinees. 

It is manifestly true that the guild has not contributed to 
the advance of the struggling American playwright. Its suc- 
cess has been won with two plays of an Irishman already 
revealed to the intellectual world by the Dublin Theater. 
Plainly, the full mission of the guild has not been sounded. 

Next yeax% however, at least one native di'ama is promised. 
Moreover, the guild has proven that thoughtful workers in the 
di'ama, sharing alike, can maintain a theater in so-called com- 
mercial New York. Having proven this, the coming season 
will be of unusual interest to the students of the theater. 

The guild, it is interesting to note, is organized along com- 
mercial theater lines, save that the cooperative idea runs thru 
the entire personnel. The board of directors governs the or- 
ganization. Since Mr. Peters, the first executive director, left 
the organization late last year to go to Europe, the post has 
been vacant, altho Lee Simonson, the scenic dii-ector, is 
actually acting in this capacity. A great portion of the theater 
( Continued on page 63) 


Photograph by Frances Bruguere 


Helen Westley, one of valescing in 
the founders and chief t? i j 

factors in the Theater ° 

Guild Who on earth 

is Langner?” 
asked Ervine, 
but he cabled pi’oduction permission, 
half believing Langner to be connected 
with some amateur or semi-professional 
dramatic organization and that “John 
Ferguson” would be done once or per- 
haps twice. 

The success of “John Ferguson” is 
a matter of dramatic history. It ran 
thru the summer and moved uptown 
to another theater. Royalties began to 
pour in upon the surprised Ervine. 
Fate played into the hands of the 
guild. When the nation-wide actors’ 
strike closed every metropolitan thea- 
ter, the guild, operating on the co- 
operative plan, remained open with 
“John Ferguson.” 

Result — the guild started its second 
season with considerably more than 
$19.45 in its treasury. The directors 
felt that the full function of the or- 
ganization meant the creation of a 
repertoire and that at least five produc- 
tions should be made a year. The guild 
launched the season on October 13, 
1919, with Masefield’s “The Faithful,” 
followed with “The Rise of Silas 
Lapham,” adapted by Lillian Sabine 
from William Dean Howell’s novel. 
The third pro- 
duction was 

Tolstoi’s “The Helen Freeman and 

P n w p r n f Augustin Duncan in 

-p. . ,, the Guild’s production 

Darkness, of Ervine ? s « John 

which attracted Ferguson” 

the first real Photograph by White 


Page Forty-Two 





' 



SjADOWLAND 


Little Old Babylon 

By Heywood Broun 


T HERE is so little team work among the authors of 
o.ur day that one can hardly blame the poor reader 
who finds nothing but bewilderment in all his re- 
search. For instance, we happened to read Vicente 
Blasco Ibanez’s “Woman Triumphant” on Tuesday and 
Wednesday, while on Thursday and Friday we were en- 
gaged with a book of sermons by Dr. John Roach Strat- 
on called “The Menace of Immorality in Church and 
State.” The novel was all about an artist who loved the 
beauty of the human body and wanted to make a picture 
of his wife, but when the painting was finished she took 
a knife and cut it into little pieces. The artist was more 
than annoyed. This act of vandalism practically ruined 
his life. Thereafter, instead of painting the nudes which 
he adored, he did pictures of copper kettles and broiled 
shad. His heart was not in such things. He died fa- 
mous, but disappointed. The story moved us to such a 
point that for a day we went about cursing the tyranny 
of clothes. Why, we thought, has the world allowed this 
ugly woolen barrier to come between us and Greek ideals. 
But then we read Dr. Straton and found that New York 
City will soon be hit 
by a tidal wave or 
an earthquake if 
women continue the 
present styles. 

“A fossilized oc- 
togenarian,” write? 
the good doctor, “or 
a self-complacent 
mollycoddle, with 
ice-water in his 
veins, may be able 
to look at the sights 
which any man can 
see in modern so- 
ciety today, and in 
the dance hold in 
his arms a throb- 
bing, beautiful 
young woman, with 
almost half her body 
exposed, and the 
other half clothed in 
good intentions — 
such a man, I say, 
under these circum- 
stances may main- 
tain a philosophic 
calm, but any young 
fellow with red 
blood in his veins 
and the elemental 
forces of nature op- 
erating in him, can- 
not so easily do so.” 

It will be ob- 
served that there is. 
a common sensuous 
quality in the style 
of the clergyman 
and the Spanish 
novelist. Dr. Strat- 
on, however, also 
possesses a tremolo 


which is not in the repertoire of Ibanez. Consider the 
story of the famous reform worker and the little child: 

“I once heard one of the most famous reform workers 
of this city explain why she gave up low-cut gowns. She 
explained that she was ready to start for the theater one 
night in such a dress, when her little boy of five said to 
her, ‘But, mother, you are not going that way? You are 
not dressed.’ And then, with trembling voice, she told us 
how all the evening thru, as she sat in the playhouse, she 
kept hearing that sweet, childish voice saying, ‘Not 
dressed! Not dressed! Not dressed!’ until at last, with 
the blush of shame mounting to her cheeks, and with the 
realization that a Christian mother should dress differ- 
ently from the idle and Godless women of the world, she 
drew her cloak about her and went home, dressed — or 
rather undressed — for the last time in such a costume !” 
Personally, we are much opposed to the spanking of 
children under any circumstances whatsoever, but it 
seems to us that an exception might well have been made 
in this case. The child in our house may shout and ram- 
page with impunity, but he will go too far the instant he 

begins to make per- 
sonal remarks about 
the style of his 
father’s clothes on 
any occasion. 

And yet we have 
a soft spot in our 
heart for Dr. John 
Roach Straton. He 
has painted a more 
stirring and exciting 
world than any nov- 
elist of the month. 
Best of all, he finds 
glamor and romance 
right in New York. 
He has found crim- 
son and purple in 
the routine of the 
big town. O. Henry 
saw us as Bagdad- 
on-the- Subway, but 
Dr. Straton has re- 
freshed the spirits 
of all weary New 
Yorkers by telling 
us that we live in 
the modern Baby- 
lon. There is a 
tonic quality in such 
teaching for the 
man from the 
Bronx or Flatbush 
who thought of the 
city as dreary and 
dull. Indeed, If Dr. r 
Straton is right, the 
novelists and the 
moving picture men 
have been getting 
our money under 
false pretenses. 

( Continued on page 

64 ) 



Photograph by Charlotte Fairchild 

MLLE. SPINELLY 

“Spi,” the Paris and London favorite, recently invaded America via 

the Ziegfeld Roof 


Page Forty-Three 





Suadqwla.no 


Reflections of a Gentle Cynic 


By Lisa Ysaye Tarleau 


NOTHING 

G ENTLE reader, I am presenting to you the shadow 
of a lady who has just left this dull and dreary 
world of ours, and I can assure you that even as 
a shadow the lady is charming. It is, therefore, not a 
fearful appearance, you see, but a well-dressed spirit, 
ruffled and frilled and with a hint of an exotic perfume 
which is a little bit risque without being really question- 
able. And just like her perfume the lady was in life, 
not questionable, but risque ; not actually burning down 
the house of her good repute in one vast emotional con- 
flagration, but playing prettily with forbidden fires and 
warming her slim and pale hands over hidden flames that 
had a sulphurous tinge. You have heard of the grandes 
amoureuses who in shameless splendor played the drama 
(or was it the comedy?) of their untamed desires and 
their wild passions before the breathless audience of a 
shocked and delighted world. Well, our lady did not 
belong to this genre of femininity. She was, if I mazy say 
so, a petite amoureuse ; not a tigress of love, but a sleek 
little white cat, stealing the sweet milk of kisses and 
caresses and giving in exchange a purr and. perhaps, even 
a scratch. But now all 
this is over. Her soul 
was weighed and found 
wanting, and the time 
of penance has come. 

We meet the lady in 
the waiting-room of 
the Inferno, into which 
Satan himself had 
ushered her. To her 
surprise, the Prince of 
Sin and Darkness did 
not look at all as she 
had pictured him, 
neither as devilish and 
rakish, nor as amused 
and cynical and clever 
as we mortals are apt 
to believe. For, in 
fact, he is rather bored 
and weary and utterly 
disillusioned. Once he 
was the swiftest and 
most splendid of all 
angels, and the divine 
adventures of the far- 
thest stars were calling 
to him ; and now he is 
the warden of a ghost- 
ly penitentiary. Can he 
help being melancholy ? 

The lady, or rather 
the shadow of the lady, 
paces up and down the 
waiting-room and so- 
liloquizes. The things 
she says may sound 
silly to you, gentle 
reader; you may find 
them mostly second- 
hand phrases; cant; 
half-read and even less 
understood ape reus, 


but the lady was in the habit of saying just such things 
during her stay in Time, and they are the only mental 
equipment she took with her to Eternity. Listen, then, 
to the charming sinner and the things she has to tell. 

‘‘Well, now ... it has come; my penance shall begin. 
But I am willing to be punished, I will not flinch nor 
draw back ... I am willing to lie on burning plough- 
shares and to shiver in the eternal ice of the lost souls. 
I am willing to suffer as Paolo and Francesca have suf- 
fered, as Fra Dolcin and his blonde love. Even the most 
terrible tortures I will endure smilingly. I have lived my 
life and I have loved it, and now I will pay the price. 
The pride of my heart will never be broken and the joy 
of my past delights will never leave me . . . 

“I think there is a certain amount of pleasure even in 
pain. Tortures and caresses are, somehow, related to 
each other, and, surely, I shall find even in the poisoned 
flower of my sufferings a drop of the honey sweetness of 
bygone days. I only wish they would begin, they would 
come ... I am just in the mood . . . 

“How miserably dull and dreary this room here is; not 
only tasteless, but colorless. Even the antechamber to 

the Inferno ought to 
have a certain charac- 
ter; it can be fearful, 
but it should not be 
boring. This wall- 
paper alone is enough 
to depress even the 
most courageous spirit. 
I think my maid had 
such a wall-paper in 
her room, but her 
esthetic needs and 
mine are, of course, 
somewhat different. 

“Boredom almost 
oozes thru these walls ; 
I think I can touch 
here ennui with my 
hands as if it were a 
loathsome and sticky 
liquid. What a delight 
the tortures will be 
compared with this in- 
tolerable waiting ! One 
suffers, but at least 
something happens, 
and anything that hap- 
pens is endurable . . . 

“I always loved 
things to happen ; all 
my life I demanded the 
breathless rush of 
events ; my heart was 
ever longing, searching, 
asking, tasting the cups 
of pleasure and break- 
ing the bread of de- 
light. And now an- 
other cup will be filled 
for me, the cup of 
pain, and I am almost 
( Continued on page 
63 ) 



Page Forty-Four 



SUADOWLANB 


Who Killed Cock Robin? 

The Season’s Gory Trail of Playwriting 

By Louis Raymond Reid 


W 


HO killed Cock Robin was a pressing theatrical 
question all season. Indeed, this year it was all- 
absorbing. The circumstances attending the 
assassination of this young figure — Broadway insists 
characteristically, upon the slangy term ‘‘bird” — have 
always fascinated ,a certain class of playwrights. They 
have written its details time and again in lurid colors and 
splashy headlines, for that Hearst of the theater, A. H. 
Woods, and the good public has responded with good 
nature and generosity. 

The old murder mystery has a remarkable vitality. 
Perhaps it is just as well. Had Mr. Robin’s physique 
not been so vulnerable to the slings and arrows of out- 
rageous fortune, the stage might easily have been domi- 
nated by bedroom farces. But murder was done just in 
time to save the Grand Rapids school of drama from 
gaining sway in the American theater. And for that we 
must be thankful. Too much lingerie and lies against a 
background of walnut or mahogany would have induced 
a nation-wide ennui 
from which the 
theater could never 
have recovered. 

A healthy bal- 
ance has been 
maintained and we 
can thank o u r 
stars, as well as 
the managers and 
the playwrights 
who have refused 
to compromise 
their ideals. Bee- 
thoven and Irving 
Berlin, the Atlantic 
Monthly and Jim 
Jam Jems, James 
Branch Cabell and 
Harold Bell 
Wright, W. S. 

Maugham and 
Owen Davis — we 
have them all. 

How can America 
go to the dogs 
while its pendulum 
of taste swings in 
each direction ? 

This season saw 
the bedroom farce 
hold ing its own 
with such repre- 
sentations as “The 
Girl in the Limou- 
sine,” “Nightie 
Night,” “No More 
Blondes” and 
“Scandal,” which 
the statisticians 
would place under 
the head of com- 
edy drama. To 



MARGOT KELLY 

The Titian-Haired Actress Appearing in the revival of “Florodora” 


me, however, “Scandal” must and shall remain farce, for 
it could not have been conceived, much less written, 
without the tongue placed securely against the cheek. 

On the other side of the ledger we find a veritable trail 
of gore. Naturally you observe that red ink has been 
used. In fact, it has oozed and trickled and poured from 
the playwrights’ pens. Everybody’s doing it. Even 
Channing Pollock, who has usually been identified with 
comedies and revues, has shaken the prosecutor’s long 
arm of coincidence in the direction of the gun play. His 
melodrama, “The Sign on the Door,” all season at the 
Republic Theater, goes a long way toward vindicating the 
impulse which sent C. Robin to his death. Incidentally, 
it should place Mr. Pollock far up on the heights of pros- 
perity, even tho the play lacks one of those amusing 
characters, such as Jimmy Gilley or Aggie Lynch, that 
made George Broadhurst and Bayard Veiller such popu- 
lar writers for the stage. 

It is not difficult to recognize the reasons why the sub- 
ject, of the murder 
of Cock Robin 
holds such thrall- 
dom over play- 
wrights. It is .a 
subject of tremen- 
dous fascination. 
It pulsates with 
primitive emotions. 
It contains the air 
of mystery which 
envelops all good 
detective stories. 
It concerns a va- 
riety of tempera- 
ments. It teems 
with action. And 
whether Sherlock 
Holmes or Father 
Brown or Nick 
Carter are asso- 
ciated with the 
case matters little. 
After all, Conan 
Doyle and Owen 
Davis are brothers 
under the skin. 
And when they 
have apprehended 
the assassin and 
learnt that the mo- 
tives for the crime 
would never con- 
vict him with the 
average jury, there 
is little for the 
playgoer to do but 
agree and go home 
somewhat tired — 
but excited. 

Practically all 
(Continued on page 
76 ) 


Page Forty-Five 





SuADOWLAND 


Page Forty-Six 


Three Camera 
Lyrics 

Photographic Studies made by Robert Conklin . 
of Chicago tor SHADOWLAND 








SuA.DOWLA.NQ 



Lenore 


two hitherto undepleted eyes in an en- 
deavor to decipher the inscriptions, for 
which diverse art I have a passion, but 
failed. Just as I got past the “To 
L ,” “L” herself came swiftly in. 

She is like that — swift. Subtle, too, 
and sharp. One gets an impressionistic 
picture of a young thing with a thicket 
of dark hair, a scarlet mouth, dark 
eyes, a slender, vital sort of body, an 
eager manner. A warm handshake, a 
sort of impelling cordiality. I thought, 
at once, of Tiger Rose. It occurred to 
me then that she was sharply more like 
Tiger Rose than like the Swallow in 
“The Son-Daughter.” That was a first 
impression ; impressions, with Lenore, 
follow one another in rapid, always 
colorful sequence. 

After talking a while, certain charac- 
teristics of the little Chinese maiden to 
whom duty and love of country came 
first showed themselves. A certain 
wistfulness ... a certain shy appeal 


Photographs by Ira L. Hill 


C ~NORE ULRIC is emi- 
nently satisfactory to 
one’s dramatic in- 
stinct. She was to mine, at 
least, about which alone I 
may speak advisedly. 

I am speaking of her 
apart from the footlights 
and the smothered Belas- 
coian orchestration. Even her name cannot be im- 
proved upon for a title. The musicality of it, the sug- 
gestion of it, the color, the melancholy, the plaint of it, 
would have given delight to Poe, would have been 
seized upon by Wilde. Lenore . . . 

I awaited her, one evening, in her dressing-room at 
the theater. Usually I am bored in a dressing-room. 
There is, almost always, no reason not to be. Unless 
one can account divers cold-cream jars, huge eye-pen- 
cils and dilapidated rabbits’ feet as reasons. 

On this occasion I was not bored, because a per- 
sonality spoke in and about the place. A vivid being 
had been here and left an impress. Lenore was every- 
Avhere suggested . . . 

It contained at least two, (I want to say a dozen or 
more, but veracity tweaks my ear), dolls in painstakingly 
correct Chinese costumes. They hung one each side 
of the dressing-table. There was a soft and inviting 
couch, odd bits of antique and colored cretonne, and 
a good half-dozen of Mr. Belasco’s pictures, heavily 
framed. They were autographed, too, and I ruined 


One gets an impressionis- 
tic picture of Lenore 
Ulric: A young thing 

with a thicket of dark 
hair, a scarlet mouth, 
dark eyes, a slender, vital 
sort of body, an eager 
manner. You think at 
once of “Tiger Rose” 


Page Forty-Eight 


SuadowlanO 



iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiumiiii 

By 

Gladys Hall 

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmiiiimiiiiiiiimimimniiiiiiiiii 






of the child ... a 
reverence for great 
persons ... a naive 
distrust of self. Char- 
acteristics seldom, if 
ever, a part of the 
world weary, the 
worldly wise . . . 

To wit: I asked 
her of Mr. Belasco, 
his methods of pro- 
duction, his personal- 
ity, et al. She looked 
quite somber and se- 
rious, quite rapt and 
reverential. She 
clasped her hands. 

“I call him ‘God,’ ” 
she said. 

I exclaimed. 

She gave a little 
laugh. “He exclaims 
like that, too,” she said, 

“but he seems like that 
to me. Aside from his 
genius, he is so patient, 
so good, so kind. We 
are always so glad 
when we know he is in 
the theater. He is an 
inspiration. His whole 
attitude is, always, ‘I 
know that you can do 
it.’ And that is why 
we generally do.” 

I asked her whether 
she believed in the 
character she was 
playing in “The Son- 
Daughter.” Whether 
she thought a woman 
would, or could, sac- 
rifice her personal 
love of a man for the 

more abstract, the colder love of country, or duty. 

She said that she did think so. At first she had not. 
But she has been going deeper and deeper into the char- 
acter of the Chinese Swallow, research being another and 
a very marked attribute of Mr. Belasco’s, and the deeper 
she goes, the more convinced she becomes of the logical 
process of Lien-Wha’s mental processes. 

“You see,” she said, “she was brought up that way. 
Day by day and hour by hour it was dinned into her — - 
love of country, obedience to her father, obedience to her 
father, love of country, over and over and over again. 
We are plastic, after all, and it all had its effect.” 

“But women in general,” I asked, “you and I ... all 
of us . . 

“I believe,” she said, “that we are all much better 
people, inside of us, than we are given credit for being, 
or give ourselves credit for being. We do not know, 
any one of us, what we will do when the great call comes, 
when the hour is struck. T do believe, tho, that most of 
us would play up, most of us would rally to the sacrifice 
as finely and as wholly as the little Chinese Swallow did. 
We have unsuspected depths, you and I . . .” 


Photograph by Ira L. Hill 


“I believe,” says Miss 
Ulric, “that we are all 
much better people, in- 
side of us, than we are 
given credit for being, or 
give ourselves credit for 
being. We do not know, 
any one of us, what we 
will do when the great 
call comes” 


I departed with a sort of 
pleasurable sensation. It was 
not so much what she had 
said, because most of it had 
been details about Mr. Be- 
lasco’s research work in order 
to produce “The Son-Daugh- 
ter” and the rest had been 
about Mr. Belasco himself; 
but the pleasurable sensation 

persisted. I felt as tho I had been admitted for that 
brief period of time, into the theater. All the lure of it, 
all the mystery, all the departure, thrilling and dark, from 
the more humdrum every-day. I felt that my sense of 
the dramatic had been satisfied by a personality. 

I went back to my first impression ... of swiftness 
and vividness ... of poppies . . . and tiger lilies . . . 
of drama and orchestration ... all young, fierce, ex- 
traordinary things . . . and the Poe-like musicality of 
the name, Lenore ... of having come in direct contact 
with a strongly vibrant personality; a personality it would 
not be easy to forget . . . 


Page Forty-Nine 


SWADOWLAND 










. I’ ■ :i ■ ; 










!'i !«!«;! 















Impressions 
of Broadway 




Page Fifty 



T 



•Upper left, William Gil- 
lette; upper right, E. H. 
Sotliern; center, Messag- 
uer’s idea of Enrico 
Caruso; lower left, Seg- 
urola of the “Met” ; lower 
right, Philip Moeller, the 
playwright 


By 

Messaguer 


KM? 




f 


My Lady 
Fashion 

nHmimiiimmiiimiiniiiiiniiiimmmiiiiitHiiittttmr 

By The Rambler 

jiiniHinmnHiiimiummiimiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiii 


A GAIN the miracle of summer. 
Long, sunny days, green 
trees, vine-hung porches, the 
scent of flowers, the lure of the 
mountains, the seashore, of quiet 
places. The casting aside of our 
winter duvetyns and velours, our 
spring tweeds and sportspuns. The 
choosing of cool voiles, crisp linens, 
dainty swisses and organdies, 
sturdy gabardines and surf satins. 
One realizes that more than ever 
personal taste governs fashions to- 
day and in the hands of the smartly 
dressed woman lies the fate of 
every style launched. 

The Summer Mode 


Just before the spring openings 
it was believed that this season we 
would see a continuation of pan- 
niered and very much wired dresses. 
The robe de style of the eighteenth 
century has been the inspiration 
for many of the quaint, picturesque, 
voluminous hoop-skirted creations 
seen on the stage during the past 
season. Altogether delightful they 
were, too, and so charming were the 
modernized models displayed in the 
shops, it was feared that the style 
would be adopted by all and pushed 
to exaggeration, which would have 
been sad indeed ! 

The general note of the openings 
is rather of straight lines with mod- 
erate fulness and but slight drap- 
eries. For daytime wear, clothes 
continue to be on fairly straight 
lines, with some accentuation at the 
hips. Afternoon and evening 
dresses continue to exhibit the 
widest variety of line and fabric. 
An advance showing of Lucile 
models shows that the garments 
which will be sponsored by Lady 
Duff Gordon fall naturally into 
two types : long, draped effects for 

Black and white 
foulard bound 
with white 
satin, white or- 
gandie chemi- 
sette. Black 
straw hat with 
white flowers. 
Designed by 
Mme. Frances 

Photograph by 
Geisler & Andrews 


the tall woman, 
and short, puffed 
or fulled effects 
for the small one. 
In this way the 
distinctive charm 
of each type is 
kept and accen- 
tuated. An origi- 
nal interpretation 
of the pannier 



SwADOWUANO 


Page Fifty-One 





places it well below the curve of the 
hip, so that the slender lines of the 
modern supple waist are not con- 
cealed by masses of material. All 
thru this collection the accentuation 
of the hip persists in many original 
forms, and there are some evening 
frocks with hoop-skirts. With these 
frocks are shown the contrasting 
draped effects for the tall, slender 
woman. For example, an afternoon 
gown of dark-blue charmeuse, long, 
cleverly swathed around the body 
has trimmings of Chinese tassels 
of mauve and green. A long, draped 
evening gown which might have 
been inspired by the Greek is of 
dull black crepe de chine. 

The summery afternoon frocks 
are also of two types. For young 
girls there is the slightly pannier 
effect of white organdie, voile or 
swiss. For the tall woman there 
are delightful effects in chiffon 
striped with lace inserts and with 
square motifs of lace and embroi- 
dery. These gowns are usually 
high in the back and cut square or 
oval in front, as Lucile thinks that the 
pannier silhouette demands a neck- 
line which mounts in the back and 
descends in a graceful line in front. 

The Revival of Old-Fashioned 
Silks 

Charming daytime frocks are 
being fashioned from foulard and 
taffeta. Old-fashioned pin-checks, 
dots and narrow stripes have been 
revived for them, and the long, 
tight sleeves, buttoned and frilled, 
are reminiscent of the art of Gains- 
borough. In fact, a tendency to use 
lingerie frills at the neck and sleeves 
is marked at nearly all the houses — 
a welcome revival. One great nov- 
elty is the suit of foulard, worn 
with a lingerie blouse, which, most 
often, is of organdie. These suits 
are extremely well liked, for they 
are both novel and practical. An 
example is a black foulard printed 
with a small pattern in white lines 
of dots. The short, loose coat is 
lined with white organdie, which is 
turned up around the bottom of the 
jacket to form an outside hem, and 
buttonholed in white. The sleeves 
on all daytime models, even one- 
piece frocks, are at least three- 
quarter length if not quite long. 
Quaint and practical are the day- 
time frocks of old-fashioned pin- 
check taffeta, also of a very 
grandmothery 
silk in brown 
and grey, with 
moderately full 
skirts, hips ac- 
centuated with 
pockets, collars 
of organdie or 
Valenciennes. 


French organdie 
with elaborate 
hand stitching. 
Posed by Hope 
Hampton for 
Bonwit Teller 
& Co. 

Photograph by Apeda 


SuADOWLAND 


Page Fifty-T wo 



SwADOWLAND 


The Latest Blouses 

Each season, before the openings, 
women state with assurance that with 
the present mode of one-piece frocks 
or of a tailleur smartly completed by 
a gilet, there is no need of a blouse. 
Nevertheless, just as soon as the pa- 
rade of mannequins begins at any of 
the houses, we succumb immediately 
tc the blouse. 

This season, blouses have come 
into new prominence. Materials may 
be of different varieties, but geor- 
gette crepe is much used. Some of 
the blouses are long-waisted, draped 
about the hips ; others have the ap- 
pearance of Louis XV waistcoats. 
The waistcoat blouse is made in such 
a fashion that the front of it falls 
outside the skirt, altho the back is 
tucked away beneath the belt. 
Mother-of-pearl buttons are used to 
fasten it, and pockets are suggested 
by very fine embroidery, which also 
runs up the front and around the 
collar. 

White organdie is admirable for 
the waistcoat type, on which embroi- 
dery may be done in white silk. An- 
other favored material is linen lawn, 
in natural or rose-color. No fabric, 
however, is really daintier or more 
appropriate for the season than a 
finely made linen lawn in pale colors, 
pink, blue and white. Blouses of 
lawn are plaited, sometimes all over 
the fronts, the shoulders and the 
high collar, and cravats of black taf- 
feta finish them. This season many 
blouses have high or standing collars, 
and often there are cravats as a fin- 
ishing touch to these collars. 

In striking contrast to these tai- 
lored blouses are those of georgette 
crepe, already mentioned. They are 
in colors, either very bright or of a 
dark shade, such as maroon, brown 
or deep violet. They are Oriental 
in effect, with the long waist and 
finished with a band about four 
inches wide about the hips. On this 
band is rich embroidery of many 
colors. These blouses have wee 
sleeves, gay with rows of fluting 
spaced one-half an inch from each 
other and combined with embroidery. 

New Lingerie Blouses 


The charm of frills, fichu and 
jabots and sheer materials of the 


finest qualities 
are featured in 
the new blouse. 
There are those 
of cobwebby ba- 
tiste and linen, 
with their dainti- 
ness and charm 
increased by one 
of the numerous 
new types of col- 
(C ontinued on- 
page 73) 


Embroidered 
cotton voile 
frock trimmed 
with ruchings of 
white organdie 
and pipings of 
grosgrain rib- 
bon. Mushroom 
leghorn hat 
trimmed with 
pleated maline 
in the smart 
rust shades. 
Franklin Simon 



Page Fifty-three 


SuADOWLAND 



' 


On the 

British 

Stage 


Special studies made 
for Shadowland 
by Hoppe of 
London 


Pepita Bobadilla, at 
the upper left, is a 
vivacious South Amer- 
ican actress playing in 
“Daddies” in London. 
She was a favorite in 
Brussels and Paris be- 
fore her British debut 


Just above is Lenora 
Hughes, who seems to 
have won London as 
Maurice’s new dancing 
partner. They call her a 
second Mrs. Vernon 
Castle 


At the left is Malvina 
Longfellow, an American 
actress now devoting her 
time to the British 
cinema 


Page Fifty-Four 




SUA.DOWL.ANO 



The Mirror 


An Original One-Act Play 


Characters: Saida Blair, Roland Haveneth, Evelyn March. 
Time: The present. 

Scene: Saida’s apartment at the top of the house. A 
room with walls of neutral color containing a few rare 
Oriental objects. A Buddha in a niche in the back 
wall. On either side of it stand tall candlesticks, 
unlighted. At the right a curtained door leads into 
the hall. At the left a window with the curtains un- 
drawn reveals a snowy twilight without. Another 
door, (curtained), leads into Saida’s bedroom. Against 
the wall is a dark chest of drawers, on top of which 
stands an old Japanese mirror. At the center left, a 
table containing a lamp and a chair. In the right wall 
a mantel and open fireplace with lighted fire ; there is 
a Chinese seat without a back beside the hearth, and a 
few good Japanese prints on the wall. 

( Saida and Evelyn enter, zvearing their outside zuraps. 
Saida is dark and rather Oriental-looking , Evelyn fair 
and of a conventional type.) 

Evelyn — So you aren’t going to the Sanford’s dance 
tonight. 

Saida — What’s the fun in dancing with stupid, half- 
alive modern men? 

Evelyn ( amused ) — What would you have — dervishes, 
gitanas ? 

Saida ( stretching out her hands) — Perhaps. I want to 
dance something wild and swift with cymbals. 

Evelyn — Like those crazy dances you used to make 
up when you were a child, I suppose. 

Saida — I do them still when I’m alone. 

Evelyn ( staring ) — Alone! What an idea. What is 
the matter with you today, Saida? You dont seem like 
yourself. 

Saida — Which self ? How are you to know what is 


iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmiiimmiimmiiiiiiiiiimiii 

By Katharine 
Metcalf Roof 

IIIIIIIII1IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII1I1IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII 

Produced at the Toy Theatre, 
Boston, Mass., December, 1912 

“A Mirror is the Soul of a Woman” 
Old Chinese Proverb 

Illustrated by 
Oscar Frederick Howard 


your real self, when you feel so different, different times 
and with different people ? Do you remember that fancy 1 
had when I was a child that I didn’t belong to my parents ? 

Evelyn ( prosaically ) — Lots of children get that idea — 
from reading fairy stories, I suppose. 

Saida — Sometimes I have it still. Sometimes when 
father and I are sitting together at dinner it comes to me 
suddenly that we are just talking on the surface of things 
and that we are really — strangers. 

Evelyn— What an idea ! But you never were like 
other children. You always wanted to play such queer 
games, and you were such a tyrant ! I was afraid not to 
do what you told me. Do you remember how you used 
to play you were a princess, and how you made me call 
you Saida? 

Saida (in a far-away voice) — Saida 

Evelyn ( staring ) — You had such an odd look when 
you said that. I believe it was what Philip Sanford calls 
your Egyptian look. 

Saida ( dreamily ) — Egypt . . . Egypt. I have never 
seen it, but sometimes I feel as if I had been there — as 
if I were remembering it. Do you ever feel like that? 
Of course you dont, dear, funny, practical old Evelyn ! 

( Evelyn moves toward the door and discovers the 
Japanese mirror.) 

Evelyn- — Isn’t that something new ? 

Saida (rising and crossing to Evelyn) — New and very, 
very old. 

Evelyn — Japanese, isn’t it? 

Saida — Yes, I found it in an antique shop. The man 
had no idea how valuable it was. See, ( she turns it to 
show the hack), it has the plum blossom and the cherry 
and the pine on the back and that strange symbol that 
means an old Chinese proverb, “A mirror is the soul of 
a woman.” 

Evelyn — “A mirror is the soul of a woman.” ( Shakes 
her head.) I cant say that I make much sense out of 
that. Did the antique man tell you all this? 

Saida — No; nobody told me. I think I must have 
read it somewhere. 


Page Fifty-Five 


SuADOWLANO 



Evelyn ( crossing to the 
door ) — Well, I am glad some- 
body invented glass. I dont 
care for the looks of myself in 
a Japanese mirror. 


Saida ,( as tf slightly startled ) — 
Why, did you notice that, too ? 

Evelyn— That is not flattering, cer- 
tainly. 

Saida — I mean that one looks dif- 
ferent in it . . . 

Evelyn — I noticed that my nose 
looked twice its ordinary size and my 
other features frayed about the edges. 
Haven’t you got over that nonsense 
yet? 

Saida ( returning to her careless 
tone ) — Which nonsense? You call so 
many things that. 

Evelyn — About mirrors. You used 
to be afraid of them. 

Saida — I am still. Yet they fasci- 
nate me. Especially old ones. Eve- 
lyn, suppose a mirror had the power 
to give back everything that had been 
reflected in it. 

Evelyn — A lucky thing it cant, I 
should say! 

Saida — There is something queer 
about this one. Sometimes when I 
look in it I cant see clearly. It is as 
if someone had blown upon it. Then 
it comes to me that if I looked long 
enough I would see some- 
thing — but I am afraid to 
look. 

Evelyn — Really, Saida, 
you need a tonic. 

Saida ( laughing ) — Dear 
Evelyn ! You know, you 
are what occultists call a 
very young soul. 

Evelyn ( scoffingly ) — 
Indeed ! A debutante — or 
still in its cradle? 

Saida ( playfully )■ — To 
be a young soui means that 
you made your debut in 
this world when you were 
born this time. Now, / am 
an old soul. I have been 
here before, so I can pat- 
ronize your youth. 

Evelyn (at the door ) — 
So you really aren’t going 
to the Sanfords’. Poor 
Philip ! How about him ? 

Saida — Oh, I like Philip 
well enough, but one gets to 
the end of him. He is like 
all the others. I want some 
one with perspective, vis- 
tas, a far horizon ; some- 
thing that escapes as I fol- 
low it. Something that 
seems unattainable. 

Evelyn (prosaically)—- 
Well, I am sure I hope you 
will find him. 

Saida (playfully shaking her) — You mat- 
.. A ter-of-fact creature! Did you never in 
your whole life wish you might have an 
adventure ? 

Evelyn (in a tone tinged with potential disapproval ) — ■ 
An adventure 

Saida (ecstatically) — Yes, yes — some wild, beautiful, 
terrible adventure. Something different from all this. 
Oh, nothing ever happens to me . . . And yet, you 


“They are walking down 
the path together . . . 

someone is singing under 
the trees ... I hear 
them but I cant see any 
more ...” 


Page Fifty-Six 



Smadowuand 



am 


know, I always have the feeling that there is one waiting 
for me around the corner . . . some glimpse of a strange 
new world. Perhaps tonight . . . who knows . . . 

Evelyn — You crazy child, good-by! 

(Evelyn leaves. Saida, left alone, unpins her hat and 
goes behind the curtain into her bedroom. While she is 
out of the room the Japanese servant silently ushers in 
Roland Haveneth, then withdraws. Haveneth looks 
about and goes up to examine the Buddha. Saida re- 
enters from the bedroom without seeing him immediately. 
She has changed her street gown for a loose Oriental 
gown of gorgeous color. Its effect is to transform her 
type into something completely Asiatic. She goes up to 
the chest and, opening a drawer, takes out some Egyptian 
beads and tries them about her head. Turning toward 
the mirror, she discovers Haveneth. She stands motion- 
less a moment. As she recollects herself she quickly 
removes the beads from her head and drops them upon 
the chest.) 

Saida — I think you have made a mistake. 

Haveneth — I beg pardon ; your man brought 
me up. 

Saida— He is a new man, and doesn’t under- 
stand English very well. 

Haveneth — But we spoke Japanese. ( An- 

swering her surprised look.) I have just come 
from the East. I asked for Judge Blair. 

Saida — My father is not in yet. But he will 
be presently, if you care to wait. ( Moves toward 
the bell.) Mosaku will show you down. 

Haveneth — Cant I wait here, please? I 
not a burglar or anything unconventional. 

I am just a harmless journalist, a foreign 
correspondent. My name is Haveneth. 

(Saida turns, her hand upon the bell, 
and looks at him. Her arm drops at her 
side. She recollects her dress.) 

Saida — It would be informal, certainly. 

Haveneth — It is not a conven- 
tional gown, you mean. Yet it looks 
more natural to me, coming from 
the Far East, than modern West- 
ern clothes. (Pauses.) So why 
should you mind being seen in it by 
a strange man, except that all our 
lives are spent in conforming to 
conventions that are reversed by 
geography ? 

Saida ( slowly , seating herself ) — 

You may wait here if you want to. 

Haveneth ( removes his coat and 
hat and lays them upon a chair. 

Glances about) — You are evidently 
an Oriental traveler also. You have 
picked up some rare things. 

Saida — No, I have only been to 
places every one goes where there 
are good hotels for the Anglo-Saxon. 

But some day I intend to see all the 
far, strange corners of the earth. 

Haveneth — You are fond of 
Oriental things, I see. Perhaps it 
was some vibration from them I felt 
in the room. 

Saida — Vibration ? 

Haveneth — I felt it the moment 
I came in, like something 
trying to speak to me. 

Living in the East makes 
one sensitive to such 
things. Coming in here 
out of that Northern 
snow-storm, I felt sud- 


denly a thousand miles away, as if I were back there 
again. 

Saida — Yes, I know. Sometimes when I am alone 
here I put out the lamp and light those tall candles. Then 
I can believe I am living in the Arabian nights. But 
when people are here — — 

Haveneth — They keep it away? ( She nods.) Dont 
let people come. 


“Dost thou love me 
then, my master. 
Only keep me near 
thee. I am thy 
slave. I do thy 
will” 


Page Fifty-Seven 


SwADOWLAND 



“Who are you that enters SAIDA — I dont. No one can 

the queen’s presence un- come here unless I ask them. 
asked ' Haveneth — But I came 

unasked. If you were super- 
stitious, now 

Saida ( gives him a startled glance, but when she 
answers, speaks lightly) — You wouldn’t be so un chival- 
rous as to bring me bad luck, would you? Cast the evil 
eye upon me, or anything like that ? 

Haveneti-i ( looking at her intently ) — If I am reallv 
your first uninvited guest — it seems significant. 

Saida — I dont find significance in accidents. 

Haveneth — There is no such thing as accident ( Their 
eyes meet. In a lighter tone ) Do I dispel the Arabian 
night ? 


Saida ( evasively ) — One is more likely to be imagina- 
tive alone, dont you think ? 

Haveneth — Imagination ! Is that what you call it ? 

Saida — What else? 

Haveneth — You might call it — memory. 

Saida ( slightly startled) — Memory 

Haveneth ( impulsively , rising) — Let’s put out the 
lamp and sit in the candle-light. May I ? 

Saida ( after a moment’s hesitation) — -If you like. 

( Haveneth lights the tall candles and puts out the elec- 
tric lamp.) 

Haveneth — There ! Now we are somewhere east of 
Suez and America is far away. {He pauses before the 
Buddha.) That is a fine one. {To Saida, who has risen 
{Continued on page 66) 


Page Fifty-Eight 



SuADOWLANO 





The Summer Drama Turns 
from Revolvers to Romance 


By The Critic 


but pretty 
little rich girl 
who tries to 
win hi m , 
done in just 
the right tem- 
po by Mary 
Kennedy. 

‘ 1 Martin- 
ique,” Lawr- 
ence Eyre’s 
new play, 
goes further 
— in time and 
locale — than 
“Not So Long 
Ago.” Eyre 
makes the 
West Indies 
his back- 
ground and 1842 his time, frankly admits his indebtedness 
to the exotic Lafcadio Hearn and at least brings a new 
figure to the stage- — the Belle Affranchie or mulatto maid 
of a certain part of the tropics. 

“Martinique” concerns itself with the tragic predica- 
ment of a convent-bred girl, the daughter of a marriage- 
less menage in Paris, who comes to the home of her 
father in Martinique only to find herself ostracized and 
forced to dwell in the quarter. A young chap comes to 
love her but, before the tangled consequences are un- 
raveled, the romance ends in tragedy. 

There is flashing color in Mr. Eyre’s drama but not 
the breath of life. The characters never seem real people, 
for Mr. Eyre seems unable to give them reality. Indeed, 
he has told his melodramatic tale inexpertly. Every now 
and then, a character pauses to remark, “Listen, my dear, 
and I will explain.” Forthwith follow involved revela- 
tions necessary to furthering the story. 

Just once does “Martinique” approach something be- 
sides pasteboard tragedy. It is in the brightly colored 
“vandoo” in the quarter where the Belles Affranchies 
gather with their lovers. The players of “Martinique,” 
it seems to us, miss the human note. Josephine Victor 
is the pitiful little Zabette from Paris, Vincent Coleman 
is the youth with love awakened, and Emmett Corrigan 
is a very sanctimonious monastery abbot, who is a sort 
of official explainer of the plot. As a half-breed villain, 
Arthur Hohl is picturesque but very, obvious. 

“Sophie,” Phillip Moeller’s peppery lilt of Paris in the 
days of courtiers, courtesans and intrigue, appropriately 
belongs in the romantic revival. Mr. Moeller has taken 
a historic character. Sophie Arnauld, the opera singer of 
decollete morals, and constructed three acts of epigrams. 
Some of these are real bons mots of the real Sophie and 
some are the property of Mr. Moeller but all of them 
are deliberately risque. Neither the real Sophie nor Mr. 
Moeller seems to us much more adroit or skilful than our 
bedroom farce constructors of Broadway. With all her 
rash statements, “Sophie,” we must admit, rather bored 
us. Emily Stevens gave a characteristic Fiske-ian 

( Continued on page 63) 


JOSE RUBEN and ELSIE FERGUSON 
in “Sacred and Profane Love.” 


T HE dramatic season of 1919-20 came in like a lion — 
with lurid melodrama galore — but went out quite 
lamblike, via the sentimental romantic route. From 
revolvers, ouija boards and murders, audiences turned 
with relief to the furbelows and laces of other days. 

On the crest of this colorful wave arrived “Not So 
Long Ago,” a comedy of New York in the early ’70’s, 
which introduced a playwriting newcomer, Arthur Rich- 
man. New York dramatic critics pronounced “Not So 
Long Ago” exceedingly appealing and saw a whimsical 
note in the way the characters discuss twenty-five cent 
eggs. But the charm is deeper than any such material 
viewpoint ; a gentle grace it is, extremely sentimental 
perhaps, but always relieved by a saving sense of humor. 

There is but a slender theme : the love of a little seam- 
stress for the son of the Fifth Avenue household in which 
she is employed, but it is presented from that roseate 
dream viewpoint with which youth views life. Your 
dreams and mine may have gone to smash but “Not So 
Long Ago” will lift you back to the might-have-been. 

New York had atmosphere and color in the ’70s of 
“Not So Long Ago,” for the boarding house “brown 
stone fronts” of today were then homelike residences, 
despite their mohair furniture and framed samplers ; the 
streets depended upon lamplighters rather than Lewis J. 
Selznick electric signs for illumination ; and horse-cars 
actually stopped at corners for passengers. 

“Not So Long Ago,” by the way, is delightfully played. 
The fragile web is never broken. The heroine, who 
calmly lies her way into romance, is a figure of charm 
and humor as played by Eva Le Gallienne, while Sidney 
Blackmer is a genuine discovery — almost another Richard 
Barthelmess — as the hero. And there is a vain, shallow 


HENRY MILLER and BLANCHE BATES 
in “The Famous Mrs. Fair.” 


Page Fifty-Nine 


SwADOWLAND 



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MILDRED HARRIS CHAPLIN 

Abbe" 


Exclusive Study of the Cinema Star 


Page Sixty 







Su/XDQWLANO 


Photograph by Ed. Thayer Monroe. 


LOUISE HUFF 

The Newest Star of the Selznick Pictures 


Page Sixty-One 


SwADQWLANO 


Shadowlanci’s Guide to the Theater 


Astor . — “East is West,” with Fay Bainter. A ’Frisco China- 
town tale told with the sure-fire theatrical tricks that never fail. 

Belasco . — “The Son-Daughter,” with Lenore Ulric. A typical 
Belasco melodrama of New York Chinatown with the usual 
surfeit of trappings. 

Bijou . — “The Ouija Board.” A spiritualistic thriller in which 
spooks solve a murder mystery. Will keep you tense. 

Booth . — “Not So Long Ago.” A delightful and charming little 
romance of New York in the early 70s. You will like this. 

Casino. — -“Betty, Be Good.” Conventional musical stuff with 
tuneful Riesenfeld music and the personable Josephine Whittell. 

Central . — “As You Were.” Fanciful, lively, and amusing — and 
the piquant Irene Bordini and the laughable Sam Bernard. 

Century. — “Florodora.” Interesting and winning revival. The 
1920 sextette is attractive and Eleanor Painter scores. 

Cohan . — “The Hottentot.” 

Comedy . — “My Lady Friends,” with Clifton Crawford. Typi- 
cal farce entertainment, pleasantly done. June Walker wins. 

Cort . — “Abraham Lincoln.” A noteworthy dramatic offering 
and a poetic presentation of the great American. You must 
see it. 

Eltinge. — “Martinique.” A colorful and atmospheric tragedy 
of the French West Indies that somehow falls short. 

Forty-Eighth . — “The Storm.” Old fashioned melodrama with 
a new fashioned star, Helen MacKellar. She is the season’s find. 


Forty-Fourth . — “Look Who’s Here.” The usual thing in girl 
shows with the unusual Cleo Mayfield. 


Gaiety. — “Lightnin’,” with Frank Bacon, 
records. 


Still breaking 



Garrick . — “Jane Clegg.” Drab but powerful Ervine drama, 
splendidly acted. 

Henry Millers . — “The Famous Mrs. Fair,” with Henry Miller 
and Blanche Bates. Vigorous play dealing with woman in 
business or home. 

Hudson. — “Clarence.” Booth Tarkington’s delightful comedy 
o-f every-day American life. The best comedy of the year. 

Knickerbocker. — “Shavings.” Regular thing in rural drama. 

Liberty . — “The Night Boat.” 

Little . — “Beyond the Horizon,” with Richard Bennett. Eugene 
O’Neill’s gruelling but smashing drama. 

Long acre . — “Adam and Eva.” Still doing nicely. 

Lyceum . — “The Gold Diggers,” with Ina Claire. 

Lyric. — “What’s In a Name.” The most beautiful of the year’s 
musical entertainments. Colorful plus. 

New Amsterdam .— Ed Wynn’s Carnival. Mostly Wynn, which 
is enough. 

Nora Bayes. — “Lassie.” Tinkling musical show in a “Bunty 
Pulls the Strings” background. Tessa Kosta a hit. 

Playhouse . — “The Wonderful Thing,” with Jeanne Eagels. 
Conventional but entertaining. 

Republic . — “The Sign on the Door.” Melodrama with a kick. 

Selwyn. — “Buddies.” Amusing comedy of the A. E. F. in 
France after the coming of the armistice. 

Thirty-Ninth. — “Scandal.” The usual Cosmo Hamilton effort 
to be daring, plus the pleasant Francine Larrimore. 

Vanderbilt. — “Irene.” 

Winter Garden . — “The Passing Show of 1919.” First aid for 
the tired business man. 


Among the Leading 
Photoplays 

The Yellow Typhoon, with Anita Stewart. The 
star in a dual role. Melodrama in which the long 
arm of coincidence is pulled out of joint. 

Mrs. Temple’s Telegram, with Bryant Washburn. 
The old farce is well celluloided. Wanda Hawley 
lends attractive aid. 

The Dancin’ Fool, with Wallie Reid. Typical 
Reid screen fooling with Bebe Daniels as an optic- 
ally interesting cabaret belle. 

The Silver Horde. A Rex Beach tale of the 
Northwest full of interest and atmosphere. Myrtle 
Stedman a hit. 

Why Change Your Wife f Cecil de Mille’s latest 
and most luxurious sex study. Gloria Swanson, 
Thomas Meighan and Bebe Daniels score. 

Romance, in which Doris Keane plays the role of 
the operatic singer so successfully played by her for 
five years on the speaking stage. 


P age Sixty-T wo 


Reflections of a Gentle Cynic 

( Continued from page 44) 


thirsting for it. Perhaps — who knows ? — 
it may be bitter-sweet . . . 

“If I were in the least bit vain, I could 
be tempted to be proud of thus facing 
my doom and fathoming its depths with- 
out trembling or shrinking ... 

“What was this? Is someone com- 
ing? No? Terrible! This room gets 
on my nerves. Oh, I do wish they would 
come ! What sense is there in making 
me wait like that? I am willing to do 
penance. I am willing to be punished. 
Why am I not taken away from here? 

“This room is simply ghastly in its 
utter dulness, and meanness, and dreari- 
ness. I remember that once, somewhere 
in the mountains, I had to sleep in a 
miserable hotel where the sheets were 
damp and grey and nasty. This room 
here is just like those sheets — damp and 
grey and nasty ... I cannot stand it 
any longer. Somebody has to come. I 
am going to call, to scream, to bang at 
the doors, to hurl myself against the 
walls. What can they do more than 
punish me?” 

She really screams, shrilly and wildly, 
not at all like a proud and silent soul, 
but like any living, hysterical woman, 
and, after a while, Satan himself ap- 
pears. He is correct, polite and tired. 

“But, my dear lady,” he says, in a very 
formal and distant manner, with marked 
and obviously pained disapproval, “my 
dear lady, I beg of you ! What a noise ! 
That is not permitted.” 

The Lady — I am sorry, but this wait- 
ing gets my nerves all on edge. What 
is going to happen to me ? 

Satan — Happen? Nothing. 

The Lady — Nothing? But the tor- 
tures ? The red-hot ploughshares ? The 
eternal ice? The unheard-of, fantastic, 
Dante-esque dooms? 

Satan- — Fables. Nursery tales. They 
do not exist. Who would do such 
things ? 

The Lady — But, then, what are the 
lost souls doing here ? What shall I do ? 

Satan — N othing. 

The Lady ( frightened ) — Nothing? 

Satan (with a melancholy finality ) — 
Nothing. 

The Lady — Nothing! All eternity 
long, nothing — -why, that’s impossible. 
All eternity long I shall sit in this idiotic- 
ally dull room, look at the grey walls and 
do nothing? Never*! I protest! That 
is against every rule, against every tra- 
dition. Nobody has told me that, no- 
body has warned me. I will not stand 
for it. I am going to scream, to howl, 
to beat at the walls, to batter at the 
door . . . 

SatAn ( very tired and extremely 
wearied ) — I am used to that. All new- 
comers do it. Until they see that it is 
quite useless, that all their efforts are 
futile and in vain and utterly hopeless, 
and then . . . 


The Lady ( trembling ) — Then . . . ? 

Satan — Then — nothing. 

The Lady — Nothing — nothing! But 
that is fearful, that is cruel, that is hell. 

Satan ( resigned , colorless ) — Why, 
yes, of course, that is hell. 

And thus he retires and leaves the 
poor and foolish little lady alone with 
the one thing she has never thought of, 
the one thing she has never faced nor 
fathomed, the one thing worse than 
doom and perdition, the thing a shallow 
soul like hers absolutely cannot endure, 
with— NOTHING. 

iinimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmmmiiiiiiiiiiimiii 

The Story of the Thea- 
ter Guild 

( Continued from page 42) 

direction is in the hands of the business 
manager, Martha Messinger, and there is 
an advisory committee numbering Ken- 
neth Macgowan, Ralph Roeder, Irving 
Pitchell and Ralph Block. 

The guild maintains no permanent 
stock company in the ordinary sense of 
the words, altho certain players closely 
affiliated with the organization are given 
first consideration in casting. This means 
that occasional guest players are invited 
by the guild. James K. Hackett, who 
played in “The Rise of Silas Lapham,” 
was a guest. Mr. Hackett later pur- 
chased the drama for a road tour. Mar- 
garet Wycherly, now appearing in “Jane 
Clegg,” is another guest player. Whether 
this policy will continue next season 
remains to be seen. 

The guild, too, intends to make its 
theater, whenever possible, the home of 
new and ambitious producers. It invited 
Maurice Browne to present his new ideas 
in stagecraft at the Garrick for a series 
of matinees this spring. This resulted in 
Mr. Browne’s presentation of the Medea 
of Euripides. 

It is interesting to note the personnel 
of the board of directors behind an or- 
ganization of such vast possibilities and 
so unique in the American theater. 
Phillip Moeller is a playwright, first re- 
vealed by the Washington Square Play- 
ers and now a steady contributor to the 
professional theater. Lawrence Langner 
is likewise a playwright, as well as a 
lawyer. Maurice Wortheim is a banker. 
Lee Simonson is a creator of scenic set- 
tings, also first revealed by the Washing- 
ton Square Players. Helen Westley and 
Helen Freeman are players. Miss West- 
ley did notable work with the old Wash- 
ington Square Players and is a strong 
factor in present productions. 

The Theater Guild program steadily 
carries this announcement : “The play- 
reading department of the Theater Guild 
requests the cooperation of authors, pub- 
lishers and agents in securing plays of 


SwAOQWLANQ 

distinction, both serious and comic, for 
present and future production.” 

Will next year’s five offerings reveal a 
vital contributor to the native drama — - 
another Eugene O’Neill or another Philip 
Moeller ? The real permanency of the 
guild will rest upon its second year 
achievements. 

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiniiiimiimmiiiiiitmiiiiiiiiiiiiimmmmmimiiiiiimiii 

The Summer Drama 
Turns from Revolvers 
to Romance 

( Continued from page 59) 
performance as Sophie ; nervous, flash- 
ing, but frequently inarticulate. The rest 
of the cast was not a happy one. 

Arriving a little late on the late la- 
mented avalanche of melodrama was 
Crane Wilbur’s thriller, “The Ouija 
Board,” in which a fake spiritualist, who 
endeavors to get control of a susceptible 
widower’s fortune, is the central figure. 
In the midst of a “framed” seance the 
spirit of the aged man’s departed wife 
takes possession of affairs. There are 
other thrills, too, such as when the “spir- 
itualist” is murdered and his dead hand 
writes a psychic message and later when 
one of the characters is killed by a bullet 
from a revolver cunningly arranged 
within a victrola. 

Mr. Wilbur’s melodrama is obviously 
unreal stuff but it achieves its purpose ; 
i.e., keeping an audience more or less 
tense. It is effectively played by George 
Gaul as a young investigator in the ps) r - 
chic, Howard Lang as the spiritualist 
faker and Edward Ellis as a slangy 
crook. Mr. Wilbur, himself, plays a 
role, but he is quite actory. 

iiii!miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiimiimiiiii!iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimimiiiimiiiimiiliimiiiiii!ii 

BIOGRAPHY 

By Charlotte Becker 

One knew what went to make him, when 
one saw 

The house where he had spent his boy- 
hood days ; 

The drawing-room, in faded blues and 
greys— 

Victorian, without a modern flaw — 

That shrined old portraits, stern and 
firm of jaw, 

Yet with kind, patient eyes; the oak- 
lined hall, 

Where stealthy shadows stole along 
the wall 

Between shelved tomes of history and 
law. 

And, when one saw the garden, then one 
knew 

Why subtle fragrance thru his essays 
crept, 

Hints of clove-pinks and daphne- 
boughs, that swept 

The old stone balustrade, where ivy 
grew ; 

And, by the arbor’s knife-scratched 
heart and dove, 

One knew why he touched, gently, on 
young love. 


Page Sixty-Three 


SWADOWLANO 


They have taken us over wide seas to 
distant lands where music strummed and 
strange and wicked things occurred be- 
hind dimly lighted windows. We have 
felt that it was necessary to be trans- 
ported “somewheres east of Suez.” But 
Dr. Straton assures us that New York 
is as bad as the best of them. Why, 
then, should we steep ourselves in mov- 
ing pictures or novels when adventure 
may lie just around the corner. Per- 
haps it needs the eye of a Dr. Straton to 
find it. More than likely, the common- 
place, humdrum citizen who followed the 
adventurous trail of Dr. Straton to some 
floridly heralded den of iniquity would 
find nothing more than a crowded dance 
hall with a number of weary workers 
trying to snatch a little ecstasy out of 
life by stumbling over each other’s toes 
to the tune of “Dardanella.” We fear 
that the fine and thrilling sights which 
the doctor saw were possible only for the 
magic eyes of a Don Quixote and most 
of us are Sancho Panzas. Still, we 
should rejoice to have left among us even 
one Quixote to charge upon the ginmills. 

Dr. Straton himself feels that the gay 
life of New York is at best a temporary 
attraction. “Have you ever thought,” he 
writes, “what a good, husky tidal wave 
would do to ‘Little Old New York/ as 
we call her? Have you ever imagined 
the Woolworth skyscraper butting head- 
long into the Equitable Building, thru 
such an earthquake as that which laid 
San Francisco’s proud beauty in the 
dust ? Have you ever imagined the 
Metropolitan Tower crashing over on 
Madison Square Garden sometime, when 
there were tens of thousands of people 
in there at some worldly, Godless cele- 
bration of the Lord’s day?” We must 
admit that we never have, nor does the 
prospect give us such pleasure as it 
seems to afford Dr. Straton. As a mat- 
ter of fact, we are not afraid of the tidal 
wave because we live on the eighth floor. 
However, that would be all the worse in 
case of an earthquake. Either would be 
a little too exciting. Perhaps our trepi- 
dation is due in part to the fact that we 
are not quite in as safe a position as Dr. 
Straton. We are not certain that we 
would be among the elect, while we 
haven’t a doubt that if the wave came, 
Dr. Straton would be found sitting safely 
on the crest, thumbing his nose at the 
sinners in the water. 

Next to Dr. Straton, no author has 
found quite as much to get excited about 
as young Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald, author 
of “This Side of Paradise,” who came 
recently from Princeton and wants to tell 
the world that it little recks or knows the 
evil and pernicious ways of the colle- 
gians. Compared to the students pic- 
tured in Fitzgerald’s novel, Don Juan 
was the veriest freshman. 

“On the Triangle trip,” he writes, con- 


Little Old Babylon 

( Continued from page 43) 

cerning his hero, “Amory had come into 
constant contact with that great current 
American phenomenon, the ‘petting 
party.’ None of the Victorian mothers — 
and most of them were Victorian — had 
any idea how casually their daughters 
were accustomed to be kist . . . He 
never realized how widespread it was 
until he saw the cities between New 
York and Chicago as one vast juvenile 
intrigue . . . Amory found it rather 
fascinating to feel that any popular girl 
he met before eight he might possibly 
kiss before twelve.” 

Some reviewers have hailed this as a 
startling revelation. A number of Prince- 
ton men, particularly those who belonged 
to the Triangle Club, have hastened to 
write letters to the newspapers, declaring 
roundly that it is not so. For our part, 
we cannot get worked up over the ques- 
tion. Rather, we feel like young Mr. 
Bunker Bean, who was wont to remark, 
“I can imagine nothing of less conse- 
quence.” 

In our opinion, the finest novel of the 
month is “Miss Lulu Bett,” by Zona 
Gale. There is nothing sensational in 
this. It is a quiet tale of small-town folk 
and yet there is more to warm the heart 
and stir the reader in a well-told story 
enlivened by keen observation and hu- 
morous insight than all the college and 
cowboy novels of a season. Miss Gale, 
who is known as the author of “Friend- 
ship Village,” has proved before that 
she knows her people and how they talk, 
but there is something more in this book 
than in any of the others. The senti- 
mental veneer is gone. She is not afraid 
to show the pettiness and the meanness 
and the tyranny which may live and 
flourish in the oft-lauded small-town 
community. And yet, with all this, Miss 
Gale has not drawn any morbid picture. 
There are brave things, too. The story 
is in itself no more than a retelling of the 
legend of Cinderella done in all the de- 
tails of our own day. And it is a good 
story even if it always has been. 

Of the vast number of adventure 
novels which are brought out in the 
spring to insure the public a sufficient 
supply of light summer reading, we have 
only dipped here and there. We have a 
certain prejudice against cowboy stories. 
The formula is never changed and the 
treatment varies only slightly from book 
to book. Few of the tales carry convic- 
tion. We have been informed that these 
cowboy stories are particularly popular 
in the West. The men ride miles from 
the ranches to procure them and they 
read them with avidity. They serve to 
take their minds away from the reality 
of the humdrum life which they lead. 

And yet, tho it follows the usual model 
with a great deal of fidelity, we found 
Max Brand’s “Trailin’ ” a readable yarn. 
There were times, of course, when we 


hoped that something would happen to 
the hero. His success was entirely too 
unbroken. In the very first chapter he 
leaped from a box at Madison Square 
Garden to ride a fiery horse which had 
terrified all the cowboys in a Wild West 
show. From that point on he went from 
triumph to triumph. When bad men 
pointed guns at him, he laughed and then 
knocked them down with rapid swings 
to the stomach or the jaw. When he 
glanced at women, they loved him, and 
bullets could not even rumple his hair. 
He swam torrents and escaped from 
every trap. Naturally, he was fearless. 
A man like that could have no excuse 
for cowardice. But in spite of the fact 
that everything has been prearranged for 
the hero, the book moves at such a lively 
pace that it holds the attention. 

Henry Oyen’s “The Plunderer” we 
found less interesting. In this book, the 
author practically promised the reader 
that his villain would triumph over the 
hero. Let any man consider this para- 
graph, which occurs late in the book : 
“They clinched; and the moment 
Roger felt those vast, soft hands tight- 
ening upon him the shock brought back 
to him a sort of reason. Garman was 
the stronger. His right hand caught 
Roger’s clenched fist within an inch of 
his chin, and his gorilla grip held the fist 
helpless. His huge hand encased Rog- 
er’s fist as one might hold a baseball ; 
and slowly, surely, gloatingly he bent the 
arm.” 

Now we ask the jury which man will 
win the fight. But if the jury is trained 
in the reading of popular novels it will 
reply that it needs more information. 
“Which one,” it will ask, “is the hero?” 
To this we must answer that Roger, the 
weaker, is the principal estimable young 
man in the book and that Garman, of the 
gorilla strength, is an unmitigated scoun- 
drel. Whereupon, the jury, without 
bothering to leave the box, will announce 
firmly, “Roger will win in the end.” 

And indeed he does. Garman is fool- 
ish enough to speak slightingly of An- 
nette, and at once the hero’s punches take 
on new power and Garman is knocked 
spinning. It may be all regular and 
proper and according to precedent, but 
we cannot see the justice of it. It seems 
to us that most of the battles between 
heroes and villains in our popular novels 
are perilously like fake fights. At any 
rate, we have yet to hear of a victory by 
a villain. It almost seems as if the 
authors were just a wee bit partial. 

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ENCHANTMENT 

By Le Baron Cooke 
The twinkle of footlights. 

Soft plucking of strings, 

The swish of a curtain: 

The thrill it all brings ! 


Page Sixty-Four 


SuADOWLANO 


shirt to-be-called-for, and read between 
the highly colored lines of fiction the 
true story of a lonely gallant little heart, 
wistful for beauty in the midst of life’s 
ugliness. Amanda went back to the 
French Hand Laundry and Madame 
Gallifilet’s wrath, weaving into her ro- 
mance the state figure of “me aunt, the 
Dutchess, who came in a coach drawed 
by five milk-white steeds with a message 
from me father, the Juke.” 

“The Joke, you mean,” sneered the 
girl with the mouse colored pompadour, 
who had just blistered her hand, “You 
myke me tired, you an’ your swells ! I’ll 
be glad when your fine toff, Horace, 
comes for ’is shirt an’ shows you up for 
a liar, that I will !” 

But Amanda’s faith was proof against 
jibes. She contrived to pat Horace’s 
stiff purple shirt bosom as she passed its 
shelf. There was Spring in the air, even 
in the steamy, sudsy air of the laundry, 
and Spring’s magic. Amanda’s small, 
pointed face was tinged with faint color, 
her eyes were starry as she bent over the 
heavy iron. To the uncritical gaze of 
Ben Willoughby she was beautiful, de- 
sirable. 

“Wot sye to a show tonight?” he asked 
her, gruffly, to cover his shyness. “I’ll 
stand treat. There’s a piece on at the 
Queen’s Own, called “ ’Er Father’s Curse 
or the Lost ’Eiress.” It’s a little bit of 
all right, wot ho ?” 

The lights of London blazed in the 
early spring dusk, putting out the stars. 
Ben and Amanda walked arm in arm, 
one of the jostling, happy evening crowd. 
Under the broken hat brim, the small, 
eager face was aflame with love of life. 

The theater, tawdry with peeling gilt 
and greyish red velvet seats was un- 
dreamed of splendor, the curtain, daubed 
with corpulent cupids, the gateway to 
Wonderland. She sat taut on the edge 
of her seat, flat chest rising and falling 
in gaspy breaths. Even Ben, the every- 
day and unromantic, shared the spell of 
the moment and took on unwonted sig- 
nificance. “I’m so ’appy,” breathed 
Amanda, “That I cant ’ardly hold all of 
it. I’m all swoll up with ’appiness !” 

The curtain creaked up to the scrape 
of the orchestra showing a canvas garden 
with bright magenta roses twining about 
a cottage casement out of which leaned 
a lady in soiled pink satin and sang in 
undoubted cockney accents a melting 
ballad. Approached the villain in a 
moustache as black as his heart. The 
heroine repulsed his wooing, he seized 
her roughly in his arms. Amanda posi- 
tively panted. Her meager little figure 
trembled, she clutched at Ben’s arm. 

“Hold ! Scoundrel !” The Hero has 
entered, tall, with dark curls and flashing 
eyes. He flings back his red velvet cloak, 
raises his sword, takes a stride forward 
and strikes a heroic attitude that wins 


Suds 

( Continued from page 38) 

instant commendation from the audience. 
As he turns to bow — an ecstatic scream 
from the gallery — • 

“Horace ! Oh, Horace !” 

Amanda had risen, despite Ben’s jerk- 
ing hand, her face radiant. A sob broke 
from her, when at length the hand pre- 
vailed and drew her down, and Ben saw 
that he was no longer present to her. 
“Oh, I’ve seen him,” she murmured rap- 
turously, as they walked homeward, 
“I’ve seen him, and aint he beautiful? 
As beautiful as a angel, that’s him !” 

The very next day, Horace Green- 
smith, Esquire, came for his forgotten 
shirt. A dozen irons stood motionless 
over a dozen doomed pieces of laundry 
as he demanded it in a loud, assertive 
tone. He’d left it ’ere afore he went un 
tour — he ’oped the bloomin’ plyce ’adnt 
lost it; and all the time he did not seem 
to see the quivering little figure behind 
the counter. But Amanda, desperate for 
her dream, leaned toward him and caught 
his amazed hand in both her own. 

“Please !” she begged under her breath, 
“please, couldn’t you just smile oncet at 
me, and act as if you know me? I’ll ex- 
plain when they stop starin’ — — ” and 
aloud in a society tone, “Oh, Horace ! 
To think o’ seein’ you again like this! 
And how’d you leave me father, the 
Juke?” 

Horace Greensmith colored dully, a 
thick red that ran over his cheaply hand- 
some face to the coarse black curls, care- 
fully oiled on his forehead. “I sye !” he 
said angrily, “wot are you trying to make 
gyme of me for? I want me shirt, I do !” 
She trembled with agony. “I told ’em 
I knew you!” Amanda hurried, “I — I 
boasted about you — you were so ’and- 
some ” 

He was flattered. He felt of his 
purple necktie, threw back his shoulders 
and smiled with thick red lips. “You’re 
a queer ’un !” he told her good-naturedly, 
“tell you wot ! I’ll tyke you to Hammer- 
smith this afternoon. It’s a bank holi- 
day!” 

And, leaning across the counter in full 
view of the gaping girls, he kist Amanda, 
with immense condescension and self- 
approval. The small pointed face grew 
quite white. Amanda’s eyes, passing the 
perfumed Horace, fell upon Ben’s 
stricken face in the doorway, and sud- 
denly she pushed him away with des- 
perate hands. “I — I — ’ere’s your shirt, 
Mr. Greensmith ! I couldn’t go to Ham- 
mersmith ,” she tried to laugh piti- 

fully, in the wreckage of her dream, “Me 
new hat hasn’t come from Selfridges yet ! 

No — truly — I — I couldn’t go ” 

Careless of the stares of the other girls, 
she watched Horace’s broad, black and 
white checked back disappear, crestfallen, 
thru the door. The misery in her eyes 
was not because of their subdued titter- 


ing, but because she had lost her long- 
cherished dream of someone strong and 
brave and true who would come and lead 
her out of this dreary reality into a bright 
dream-world. She had seen his greedy 
glance, felt his jocular kiss, knew now 
that sbe had worshipped a tinsel god. 

“It was all a lie !” Amanda murmured 
desolately, “this is the truth — the laundry 

—and the scolding and the blisters . 

And I’m not anything, and nobody’ll ever 

love me. Nobody never could ” 

And then she saw Ben’s face again. 
He was not handsome — Ben — with his 
freckles and snub nose and his queer 
carroty hair, but his eyes — Amanda gave 
a little cry, gripped her hands on her flat 
chest. Strong, and brave and true — they 
were the eyes of her dream, the eyes of 
him who would come to lead her out of 
the house of bondage 

A carriage and pair drew up outside 
the laundry with a flourish. A footman 
in dark green livery with silver buttons 
pushed open the door and looked grandly 
about him as Madame Gallifilet hurried 
forward. “I ’ave a mesage,” he de- 
claimed, in rolling-chest tones, “from 
Lady Burke for Miss Amanda Afflick !” 
“My Gawd !” breathed the Pompadour, 
as they watched Amanda tear open the 
crested envelope, “Pinch me, Liz, I’m 
seein’ things !” 

Amanda folded the note. She held her 
head very high, and spoke to the respect- 
ful footman loftily. “You may wait out- 
side, Varlet!” said Amanda, “I’ll get me 
hat and coat on at once !” 

Dazedly, the French Hand Laundry 
and its proprietress, Madame Jeanne 
Gallifilet, stood watching while Amanda 
pinned on the battered old hat, her lan- 
guid motions giving it the look to their 
startled eyes, of a Paris creation. 

“Where — where,” began Madame, and 
swallowed, “where are you going?” 
Amanda dragged her shapeless coat 
about her shoulders regally. “I’m going 
to Craigmoor Castle,” she answered, “to 
visit me — me aunt, Lady Agatha Burke 
for the afternoon.” She held out one 
hand, great-ladywise, “Come, Ben ! The 
carriage waits. Let us begone !” 

It was Amanda, Daughter of a Juke, 
who swept out with Ben. Quite plainly 
they saw her pink satin train. 



A CORRECTION 

Thru a typographical slip, the color 
plate of Evelyn Nesbit in the June 
Shadowland was credited to Alfred 
Cheney Johnston and the color plate of 
Corinne Griffith to the Moffett Studios 
of Chicago. The original portrait of 
Miss Griffith should have been credited 
to Mr. Johnston and the picture of Miss 
Nesbit to the Moffett Studios. 


Page Sixty-Five 


5uADOWLA.NO 


and stands looking up at the Buddha ) : 
I believe you are saying your prayers 
to it ! 

Saida ( recalling herself and speaking 
in a light tone ) — You know, I did when 
I was a child. We were playing heathen. 
We have always had that Buddha. An 
ancestor in the East India trade brought 
it home. 

Haveneth ( lifting an Egyptian ush- 
apti from the shelf ) — Where did you get 
this ? 

Saida — In an antique shop in London. 
I saw it in the window and felt compelled 
to buy it. 

Haveneth ( half jestingly) — Perhaps 
it’s your ka, your double. It has a look 
of you. 

Saida — You flatter me ! 

Haveneth ( turning it toward her ) — 
But really it has. Cant you see it? No 
doubt it was buried with you when you 
were made into a little mummy long ago. 

(She replaces it upon the shelf.) 

Saida — You have traveled a great deal. 

Haveneth — Yes, 1 am a sort of Wan- 
dering Jew. 

Saida — Then you have no country. 

PIaveneth — I hardly know what to 
call myself. I was born in the East. I 
had a Hindu nurse. My parents were 
English, but we have lived all our 
lives away from England. And you are 
Judge Blair’s daughter — a real bred-in- 
the-bone American. Yet I feel the mys- 
tery of the East about you, something 
that suggests the inheritance of an infi- 
nitely old civilization ; something that 
seems to awaken memories. I wonder if 
we have ever met. I feel as if I had 
known you somewhere . . . But that is 
impossible. 

Saida — No, I am sure we have never 
met. But ... it is odd ... I had tkat 
same feeling when I looked up and saw 
you standing there. 

Haveneth ( leaning forward) — You 
have a Japanese look, too. It is not ex- 
actly your features — not anything fixed. 
It is the firelight, perhaps. It makes one 
imagine tilings. 

Saida — Imagination, not memory? So 
you are a foreign correspondent. For an 
English paper? 

Haveneth — - English and American 
both. You see, I rather drifted into the 
work. I was out there when the war 
broke out — I happened to be the only 
person in command of the English lan- 
guage that knew certain things. I cabled 
the stuff to London. Then one of the 
papers engaged me. I know some Jap- 
anese and a little Chinese and two or 
three Indian dialects. 

Saida ( drawing a long breath) — What 
a wonderful life! ( After a moment) 

Tell me — -when you go to places for the 


The Mirror 

( Continued from page 58) 

first time, do you ever have a feeling of 
having been there before? 

Haveneth — Yes, I had it once in the 
most remote corner of Asia. I think I 
was the first being from the western 
world who had ever invaded it. {Pause.) 
I am sure that I had been there before. 

Saida {arrested) — In some other life, 
you mean? {He nods.) I dont know if 
you are serious, but sometimes I almost 
believe that. 

Haveneth — I do believe it. 

Saida — Then why should we have 
only these queer little flashes of memory 
that escape like a dream before we can 
catch them ? 

Haveneth — We are here to live our 
present life without prevision or mem- 
ory, otherwise we would be nothing bet- 
ter than puppets of destiny. 

Saida {trying not to speak seriously) 
— But in the end we own our own com- 
plete soul, conscious of its experiences — 
is that it ? 

Haveneth — Yes. You know the Ori- 
ental idea of the soul is different from 
ours. 'It is not exactly the same indi- 
vidual soul that returns, as they believe, 
but elements of it. The strongest ele- 
ments survive ; you are the same person, 
yet not the same. The soul is like an 
actor who remains himself, altho living 
for the time in each of his many parts. 

Saida — And while the play is on he 
believes the character to be himself, then 
wakes to find — no, I dont like that idea. 

Haveneth — Of course you dont. The 
Western mind clings so passionately to 
the sense of its immediate personality. 

Saida — Its immediate personality is 
the only one it knows ! 

Haveneth — How much are you the 
same person now that you were at ten? 
Have you ever thought of that ? A man 
in his seventies has already lived several 
lives in several different environments in 
this lifetime. He has been a number of 
people at different ages and stages, yet he 
recognizes all those past selves as belong- 
ing to himself, altho he no longer feels 
as they did. So, after all, you see, a man 
is the sum of his past selves even in a 
single lifetime. 

Saida — That makes it seem more pos- 
sible. 

Haveneth — And the ruling passions 
strong in death carry over from one life- 
time to another — the loves and hates, the 
good deeds and bad, the unfulfilled de- 
sires. They are the bonds that hold us 
to other souls. They are woven into an 
invisible cord strong enough to draw us 
thru the centuries, thru our successive 
lifetimes until the debit is paid — but I am 
giving you a lecture. 

Saida — No; go on, I want to hear it 
all. It would explain the mystery of 


attraction and repulsion, this belief of 
yours. 

Haveneth — It explains everything — 
the opportunities, all the apparent injus- 
tices. No one can evade his debts, no 
one suffers in vain — it is the working out 
of a great law. 

Saida {with a little shiver) — It sounds 
terribly relentless. I would rather escape 
a few penalties. 

Haveneth — But you cant. 

Saida {after a moment’s reflection, 
rejecting the idea) — No, I refuse to be 
such a fatalist. I must believe that I 
choose my own way. 

Haveneth — Ah, but you did choose. 
You chose in passionless space between 
the worlds. Our lives here are a pattern 
that we weave in the dark. 

Saida— A pattern that we weave in the 
dark without choosing our design. I 
dont like that idea. 

Haveneth — That is because you have 
lived all your life in the West. 

Saida — And we do not see the pattern 
until it is finished 

Haveneth — No, but there are mo- 
ments when one may catch a glimpse; 
because your soul — your larger soul of 
which you are only partly conscious — is 
like a mirror that holds the pictures of all 
your former lives. 

Saida {glancing involuntarily at the 
Japanese mirror) — Like a mirror. No, 
no ; it’s nonsense. I wont believe that. 

Haveneth {turning a direct attention 
upon her) — Why did you take off those 
beads you had on your head when I 
came in ? 

Saida {laughing) — Naturally, I felt a 
little foolish at being caught masquerad- 
ing like a child by a strange man. 

Haveneth — Masquerading — why do 
you use that word? You felt like your- 
self in them when you were alone, didn’t 
you ? 

Saida {half startled) — Like myself? 
I dont know. I have a funny feeling 
about those beads. I had to buy them, 
too. They sort of hypnotized me. I felt 
as if they had been mine. 

Haveneth — Perhaps they had. {Af- 
ter a moment) : Put them on again. 
{Picking up the beads and handing them 
to her) : On your head, just as you had 
them before. {She puts the beads on her 
head.) Now you are back in Egypt. I 
can feel the desert, all the mysteries of 
the Sphinx are in your eyes. I have 
seen you like this before. You had con- 
demned a slave to death. 

Saida {as one in a dream) — He had 
disobeyed me . . . {Suddenly tears off 
the beads.) 

Haveneth — Why did you do that? 

Saida — I felt as if something were 
{Continued on page 68) 


Page Sixty-Sir 



A few of the latest 

PARAMOUNT PICTURES 

alphabetically listed 


A few of the latest 

PARAMOUNT PICTURES 

alphabetically listed 


JOHN BARRYMORE in 
DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE 
Directed by John S. Robertson 


GEORGE FITZMAURICE’S 
Production 

“ON WITH THE DANCE!” 


“THE COPPERHEAD” 
With Lionel Barrymore 
Directed by Charles Maigne 


WILLIAM S. HART in 
“THE TOLL GATE” 

A William S. Hart Production 


CECIL B. DeMILLE’S 
Production 

WHY CHANGE YOUR WIFE? 


GEORGE H. MELFORD’S 
Production 
“THE SEA WOLF” 


y wwtmwnt 
fie tares- 


“EVERYWOMAN” 
Directed by George H. Melford 
With All-Star Cast 


WILLIAM D. TAYLOR’S 
Production 

“HUCKLEBERRY FINN” 


D INNER’S over, and the cool 
of the evening calls you out. 
Whither-away? To the theatre 
that is showing a Paramount 
Picture, of course. 

There’s where everybody is. 
There’s where the flame of ro- 
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There’s where the dusk is athrill 
with pleasure and the whole world 
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Every night is a big night if you 
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ADOLPH ZUKOR Pres JESSE L. LASKY Vice Pres CECIL B. DE MILLE Director General 

NEW YORK NUj | 


EVERY NIGHTS A BIG NIGHT 


I 




Page Sixty-Seven 




SUADOWLAND 


slipping from me . . . That strange sen- 
sation I had the first time I looked in the 
mirror . . . 

Haveneth — The mirror? 

Saida ( indicating ) — That old Japan- 
ese mirror over there. 

Haveneth ( going up to examine the 
mirror ) — I believe it came from Totomi. 

Saida ( dreamily ) — Where the cherry 
orchard lies between the town and the 
great bronze bell of Mugenyama, made 
of a thousand mirrors . . . 

Haveneth (turning)- — You have been 
there? (Saida shakes her head.) You 
spoke as if you had. 

Saida — Someone must have told me, 
or I have read it somewhere. 

Haveneth (looking in the mirror) — 
It is not very clear. 

Saida (eagerly) — You see it, too — - 
that mist that comes when you look 

Haveneth — Look now. 

Saida (drawing hack) — No- — no; I 
dont want to. 

Haveneth (lightly, yet watching her 
intently) — Why not? What do you ex- 
pect to see ? 

Saida (half laughing) — Myself, I sup- 
pose. 

Haveneth (with meaning) — You 
might learn something more about your- 
self. (Saida gives him a startled look.) 
You know there are mirrors that can 
show you all the buried secrets of your 
soul. Come — look. (He takes her hand 
to draw her toward the mirror. She al- 
lows him to retain it an instant, then 
draws it sharply away. ) 

Haveneth (in a low voice) — Why did 
you do that? You broke the connection. 
In another moment — — 

Saida (agitated) — Nonsense. It was 
nothing. 

Haveneth — You felt it, too — that cur- 
rent that passed between us. You broke 
the connection. It is like lifting the tele- 
phone receiver. The voice is there, but 
you cant hear it until you 

Saida (in agitation ) — I dont want to 
talk about these things. 

Haveneth- — Look at me. Are you 
frightened? (Puts his hands lightly on 
each shoidder and forces her to meet his 
eyes. Drops his hands.) No, you are 
not frightened. You are only afraid — as 
a woman is on the edge of an adventure 
in a strange country. 

Saida (dreamily repeating) — An ad- 
venture in a strange country . . . 

Haveneth — Give me your hand while 
I look in the mirror. (He takes her 
hand in his left one and stands looking 
into the mirror. Suddenly he exclaims 
and, dropping her hand, covers his eyes 
and moves back from the mirror.) 

Saida (in suppressed excitement)— 
You saw something. Why did you hide 
your eyes? 


The Mirror 

(Continued from page 66) 

Haveneth ( half dazedly) — I dont 
know. For some reason, one fears to 
look upon 

Saida— U pon what ? 

Haveneth (with his eyes upon her) — 

Saida — T he future? 

Haveneth (with his eyes upon her) — 
The future, yes — enclosed in the past. 

Saida (nervously smiling) — What a 
Delphic utterance. Was it so terrible? 
(He shakes his head.) Aren’t you going 
to tell me what you saw? 

Haveneth — A fter you have looked. 

(Saida turns slowly to the mirror. He 
leans against the mantel, watching her.) 

Saida — T here is a mist across it. Ah, 
the — face — the face I saw before. (She 
stares intensely, with the expression of 
one watching something.) The air is 
pink with cherry blossoms . . . How 
sweet they are. 

Haveneth — I s no one there? 

Saida — T hey are walking down the 
path together . . . Someone is singing 
under the trees ... I hear them, but I 
cant see them any more . . . 

Haveneth (in a low tone) — What is 
the song? 

(Saida slowly sinks down on her knees, 
Japanese fashion, and sings in a low 
voice to a Japanese melody .) 

Saida — 

Kawairrashi-sa ya ! 

Hotaru no mushi wa 
Shinobu nawate ni 
Hi wo tomosu. 

(At the end of the song, she remains 
staring ahead as if at something beautiful . ) 

Haveneth (in a low voice) — What 
did you see? 

Saida (speaking slowly and with 
pauses) — I saw first myself as in any 
mirror, then the mist. Then my face 
again, but changed . . . yet I knew it 
was my face. 

Haveneth — Y es . . . 

Saida — S omeone was with me . . . 

Haveneth — Y ou walked under the 
cherry blossoms with a man whose face 
was like 

Saida (interrupting breathlessly) — He 
was no one I had ever seen before. 

Haveneth — W e saw the same thing. 
(He drops upon the Chinese seat by the 
fire.) That Japanese song ... It was 
familiar. 

Saida— I have forgotten it. 

Haveneth — I will tell you the words : 
“As I steal along the rice fields to meet 
my lover, the firefly kindles a light to 
show me the way.” 

Saida (putting her hands over her 
eyes) — Yes . . . now I think I remem- 
ber . . . No, it is gone. 

Haveneth — L ook again. 

(Still on her knees, Saida raises her- 
self to look in the mirror.) 


Saida (in a far-away voice ) — I see a 
woman . . . 

Haveneth (staring into the fire) — 
The same woman . . . 

Saida — A nd a man . . . 

Haveneth — T he same man . . . 

Saida — T hey are the same . . . yet 
different. It is the desert . . . It is still 
and wide . . . There are a great many 
stars . . 

(A faint strain of primitive dance mu- 
sic- — strings, oboe and a percussion in- 
strument — is heard as if it were a great 
way off. The sound gradually increases 
without ever becoming loud enough to 
lose the impression of dream music.) 

Haveneth — M usic . . . There is mu- 
sic in the tent. (He slowly raises his 
eyes from the fire and looks into space.) 
I see a dancing girl . . . (Speaking in a 
low voice, as if addressing the girl) : 
Dance . . . dance . . . 

(Saida, at the sound of his voice, 
slowly turns a fixed gaze from the mirror 
to him. She cowers, her eyes upon his 
face. ) 

Saida (with a gesture of surrender. 
In a low voice ) — I am thy slave . . . 

(As she speaks, Haveneth’ s eyes slowly 
travel to her face. As his eyes meet hers 
his expression changes to one of savage 
mastery. ) 

Haveneth — A ye, thou art my slave 
and do my will . . . Dance ! 

(At his command she slowly rises, 
slowly raises her arms and clasps them 
behind her head. . Her body begins to 
sway in accord with the rhythm of the 
music. She passes by degrees into a 
slow Oriental dance; toward the end it 
becomes a pantomime of invitation. As 
she dances he rises as if overcome by her 
spell and pursues her. Dancing, she 
eludes him. As he at last overtakes and 
seizes her, she cowers in his arms and 
speaks in a soft, pleading voice.) 

Saida — D ost thou love me, then, my 
master ? Only keep me near thee. I am 
thy slave. I do thy will. (He draws her 
toward him, then repulses her harshly, 
with a laugh.) I love thee at my will. 

Saida (crouching)— Pity me, for I 
love thee, my master . . . Only give me 
thy hand 

Haveneth — Y ea, thou shalt feel my 
hand. (Raises it to strike her, but in- 
stead comes in contact with the cold 
metal of the candlestick, which breaks 
his dream consciousness and gradually 
recalls him. He stares dazedly about the 
room. Saida, in evading his blow, has 
hidden her face. . As his consciousness 
changes she also awakens.) 

Haveneth (dully ) — What has hap- 
pened ? 

Saida (dazedly ) — Such a strange 
dream. (Staring at him.) You were 
(Continued on page 70) 


Page Sixty-Eight 



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Page Sixty-Nine 





SWADOWLAND 



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The Mirror 

( Continued from page 68) 


cruel; I was afraid of you. (She rises, 
drawing away from him as she speaks ) : 
I was in your power . . . ( With rising 
excitement, recoiling still further from 
him.) You drew my heart out of my 
body after you . . .You hurt me . . . 
hurt me — my body and my soul . . . yet 
you were my life. ( Closes her eyes, re- 
covers herself and speaks in a quieter 
voice . ) What a strange dream ! Dont 
let it come back . . . ( Haveneth moves 
toward her like one in a trance. As he 
does so she moves back until she is 
against the wall. Instinctly she puts her 
hands behind her. With a remnant of 
fear) : Dont touch me. (Her hands ac- 
cidentally touch the Egyptian beads. She 
draws them oiit like one in a dream and 
stares down at them.) 

Haveneth (in an ebbing tone of 
authority as he watches her.) You shall 
do my will. (He tries to raise his hand 
with a gesture of authority, but as he 
gazes at her his arm drops to his side. 
She sets the beads upon her head, and as 
she docs so instinctively turns to the 
mirror. ) 

Saida (after a moment, her eyes upon 
the mirror ) — What a wide river . . . 
What a strange boat . . . Who is that 
woman who looks into my eyes ... A 
slave is fanning her with a green and 
golden fan ; her eyes look into mine . . . 
(She stretches out her hands and touches 
the mirror. Her expression changes to a 
vague recognition.) Ah, the mirror . . . 
I see . . . myself! (Her eyes travel to 
Haveneth, who stands as if turned to 
stone, staring at her with lowered head. 
Her pose changes to one suggesting the 
fierce authority of a primitive queen.) 

Haveneth (in a low voice ) — Saida 
. . . Saida . . . 

Saida— W ho are you that enters the 
queen’s presence unasked! 

Haveneth (in a low voice ) — One 
who asks only to be the dust beneath 
your feet. One whose blood is yours to 
shed 

Saida (with a smile ) — Then shall it be 
shed without delay . . . 

Haveneth (in a tone of passion) — 
How beautiful you are . . . But you are 
terrible. Oh, my love is choking me . . . 
I cannot bear it any more . . . (In a 
tone of anguish) : Let me go . . . 

Saida (with a cruel smile ) — You shall 
go. 

Haveneth — N ay, I cannot. Where 
can I escape your spell? The world is 
full of you. In the dark your eyes 
pierce my soul and thru the night I am 
tortured with the vision of your mouth. 

Saida (scornfully )—- 1 am tired of this 
sick raving. (With mock sweetness.) 
Would you escape your pain? Then 
you may shed your blood as you have 
wished, drop by drop, until you die . . . 
(She turns and raises her hand as tho 
she commanded a slave to bear him off. 
He kneels and grasps her gown.) 

Haveneth — O nly let me die at these 


feet, die by your hand, die with mine 
eyes upon your face. 

Saida (in a tone of outraged sover- 
eignty) — Touch not the queen’s garments 
with your hand. Now to slow death I 
shall add slow torture . . . 

Haveneth (springing to his feet) — 
Then if I must die, for one moment I 
shall live! (He seizes her in his arms 
and kisses her. She escapes and draws 
back with upraised arm to fling him off. 
As they stand so facing each other, her 
arms drop to her side and she remains 
staring at him, as the dream conscious- 
ness, broken by his kiss, slowly ebbs.) 

Haveneth (in a lozv, rapt voice, star- 
ing at her in a moment of vision) — Yes, 
it is you. Again . . . you . . . the soul 
within my soul. Mine from the begin- 
ning, down the centuries. MineinTotomi 
in cherrytime, mine in the desert, my 
dancing girl. Mine in Egypt, a princess. 
Thru the centuries. I am yours and you 
are mine. Come — we will read the 

future . . . (He takes her hand and 
draws her again tozvard the mirror. She 
obeys like one in a dream. But when she 
finds herself before the mirror she closes 
her eyes and strikes it to the floor.) 

Saida — No, not that. I will not look. 
(She drops softly to the floor, tempo- 
rarily losing consciousness. Haveneth 
goes up to her. As he does so she comes 
to, and, raising herself upon her elbozv, 
addresses him in a tone of surprise.) 
Who are you? 

Haveneth — Have you forgotten? 

Saida— I think I have seen you some- 
where. I remember now. You came 
here by mistake and we were talking. 

Haveneth — It was not a mistake. It 
was all part of the design. 

Saida ( wondering ) — The design? You 
came here to see my father— I remember 
now. You have traveled a great deal. 
We were talking of the East. 

Haveneth — The cherrytime at To- 
tomi 

Saida- — There was some music . . . 
But I have lost it. 

Haveneth — And the path under the 
cherry blossoms to the temple, the temple 
with the great bronze bell? 

Saida- — It was something you told 

me . . . 

Haveneth — And the desert, the music 
and the dancing girl ! 

Saida — T hey are like fragments of a 
dream. 

Haveneth — And the barge on the 
Nile, and the slave fanning you with a 
green and gold fan? 

Saida — The slave fanning me . . . 
What are you talking about ? What has 
happened to me? Did I faint? (She 
sits up, composing her dress and hair, 
rises, goes to the seat under the Buddha.) 

Haveneth- — And who am I ? Do you 
remember ? Am I a stranger who will 
go away, whom you will never see again ? 

(Continued on page 80 ) 


Page Seventy 


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Page Seventy-One 




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The New Art of Cam- 
era Painting 

( Continued from page 15) 

At the first glance the pictures that 
cover one wall of the studio suggest the 
old masters. Surely that portrait yon- 
der, with the heavy blacks and strong- 
high lights, is a Rembrandt; that deli- 
cate figure beside it with the frail, curv- 
ing hands, the ascetic face and the 
strange glow of unseen light is a del 
Sarto ; that robust head beyond, a char- 
coal sketch of the old Dutch school. 
Yet they are all photographs. More- 
over, they owe none of their pictorial ef- 
fect to artful retouching. They are the 
pictures of modern, every-day folk, many 
of them the artist’s neighbors of the Vil- 
lage, taken with the same type of camera 
which in the ordinary photographer’s 
hands turns out the set, self-conscious 
pictures we present to our relatives and 
friends. 

But Nicholas Muray is more than an 
expert mechanician of the camera. He 
is an artist. He sees people in the terms 
of pictorial compositions. He knows the 
inestimable value of shadows and uses 
them to produce miracles of flesh model- 
ling. He possesses, moreover, a pecu- 
liarly keen power to analyze personalities 
and to transfer to paper, not only the 
features, but the very self of his sitters. 

He has brought to his work many 
years of preparation and a training 
which many an artist in oils and pig- 
ments might envy. In his native Buda- 
pest, he studied for four years in the 
Industrial Art School. He sketched the 
nude models in the life classes, learning 
an artist’s reverence and enthusiasm for 
the human line. He practiced modelling 
in clay. Afterwards came Paris, then 
three years in Berlin, where he studied 
photography with all the detail and 
thoroness that German science implied. 

But still he was not satisfied. He did 
not want to take pictures as well as any 
one had ever taken them — he wanted to 
take them better. He had a vision of 
photographs that should show, not a 
single individual, but humanity itself in 
all its human worth and dignity; that 
should be pictures as much as an inter- 
pretative portrait painted by the brush 
of a Whistler or a Sargent. 

To work intelligently, the workman 
must know his material, and so Muray 
attended physiognomy classes and studied 
the relation of the physical appearance 
of the face to the character, the meaning 
of the lines, the tensities and laxities of 
facial muscles which make up the ex- 
pression. He went further. That he 
might know the workings of the muscles, 
he attended clinics at a Berlin hospital, 
watched operations, visited morgues and 
became an anatomist, learning with the 
scalpel and dissecting knife valuable les- 
sons which he was to put to use after- 
ward in his photographic experiments. 
Heroic preparation, surely, for a work 
which, it is safe to say, most people think 
requires only a camera, a superficial 
knowledge of focus and chemistry — and 
a studio ! 

( Continued on page 74) 


Pa.qc Seventy-Two 



SiuA.DOWLA.ND 


My Lady Fashion 

( Continued from page 53) 

lars fashioned from Valenciennes — or 
perhaps Irish crochet. Others evidence 
the distinguishing touch of exquisite hand 
embroidery. The quaintly frilled models 
are in high favor. Very demure are 
those made with fluted ruffles edged with 
fine lace, which are worn in bertha-like 
effect, the two ends meeting above the 
waistline. The elbow sleeves are usually 
finished with ruffles of the same type. 
There are also many good-looking waists 
of organdie, trimmed with ruffles, which 
are finely knife-pleated but unadorned 
with a lace edge. Frills of white net are 
much in evidence on blouses of sheer cot- 
ton and silk. 

The new feature in tuck-in blouses lies 
in the collar, the accepted fashion in 
these being the very large Tuxedo shape, 
narrow where it fits the neck, but spring- 
ing out sharply from the shoulders to a 
width of five or six inches and continuing 
wide to the waistline, so that it practi- 
cally forms a vest for the coat with open 
front. 

Blouses to wear with separate skirts 
are still made to slip over the head and 
have short kimono sleeves. Pleated 
ruffles around the bottom are added this 
year. 

Fabrics for Summer Wear 

The fabrics for summer wear are as 
varied as they are lovely. For morning 
and hot weather utility wear there is a 
splendid line of ginghams. The famous 
Scotch ginghams are the leaders in this 
special fabric and among those of do- 
mestic manufacture one may secure at a 
moderate price, (for these days), a wide 
range of effective plaids, dainty checks 
and stripes in a very likable range of 
color combinations. In the thinner cot- 
tons there are any number of dainty 
sprigged and striped dimities, plain and 
embroidered batistes and handkerchief 
linens, some as fine as a cobweb. 

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Amateur Photography 
Contest 

Shadowland announces a 
monthly prize contest open to all 
amateur photographers. Each 
month a first prize of $10, a second 
prize of $5 and a third prize of $3 
will be awarded. The winning 
pictures will be reproduced in 
Shadowland 

A jury of photographic experts 
will pass upon all pictures submit- 
ted. All pictures entered in this 
contest should be addressed to 
Amateur Photography Contest, 
Shadowland, 177 Duffielcl Street, 
Brooklyn, N. Y. If you desire the 
return of your pictures, attach the 
necessary amount of postage with a 
clip. 


Mary Pickford and Mr. 
Reid Head Contest 

The popularity contest with the two- 
fold interest rushes on. If you have not 
already sent in votes for your favorite 
player, you have two more months in 
which to do so. Join the ranks of the 
photoplay students who are showing 
themselves cognizant of who is who in 
movieland. 

Here are the last-minute results at the 
time of going to press : 

Mary Pickford, 35,350; Norma Tal- 
madge, 18,952; Pearl White,. 14,250; 
Mme. Nazimova, 8,950; Constance Tal- 
madge, 6,100 ; Bebe Daniels, 4,189 ; Viola 
Dana, 3,350; Lillian Gish, 2,250; Elsie 
Ferguson, 2,050; Mary Miles Minter, 
1,822; Shirley Mason, 1,524; Theda 
Bara, 1,524; Ethel Clayton, 1,362; Doro- 
thy Gish, 1,352; Anita Stewart, 1,352; 
Ruth Roland, 1,250; Olive Thomas, 
1,250; Gloria Swanson, 1,100; Mar- 
guerite Clark, 1,009; Baby Marie Os- 
borne, 1,006; Dorothy Dalton, 1,006; 
May Allison, 950; Marion Davies, 856; 
Irene Castle, 800 ; Geraldine Farrar, 752 ; 
Clara K. Young, 752; Pauline Frederick, 
704; Alice Lake, 650; May Murray, 552 ; 
Margarita Fisher, 552 ; Mme. Petrova, 
552 ; Marie Prevost, 552 ; Edith Johnson, 
502; Alice Joyce, 504; Alice Brady, 450; 
June Caprice, 450; Vivian Martin, 450; 
Katherine MacDonald, 400; Priscilla 
Dean, 402 ; Marie Walcamp, 402 ; Do- 
lores Cassinelli, 350; Juanita Hansen, 
350; Ann Little, 350; Madge Kennedy, 
300; Wanda Hawley, 300; Betty Comp- 
son, 300 ; Billie Burke, 254 ; Doris Ken- 
yon, 254; Jane Novak, 254; Doris May, 
152; Jean Paige, 202; Lila Lee, 152; 
Gladys Leslie, 152; Mae Marsh, 152; 
Dorothy Phillips, 152 ; Fanny Ward, 152. 

Wallace Reid, 12,050; William S. 
Hart, 11,452; Richard Barthelmess, 
9,802 ; Douglas Fairbanks, 8,102 ; Eugene 
O’Brien, 4,250; William Farnum, 2,600; 
Charles Ray, 2,452 ; J. Warren Kerri- 
gan, 2,100; Tom Mix, 1,950; Douglas 
MacLean, 1,652; Charles Chaplin, 1,450; 
Tom Moore, 1,150; Rodney La Rocque, 
1,100; John Barrymore, 952; Antonio 
Moreno, 952 ; William Russell, 904 ; 
Jack Pickford, 850; Ralph Graves, 850; 
Thomas Meighan, 801 ; William Duncan, 
748 ; Earle Williams, 748 ; Kenneth Har- 
lan, 705 ; Bert Lytell, 705 ; Harry North- 
rup, 705 ; George Walsh, 705 ; Bobby 
Harron, 649 ; Lloyd Hughes, 649 ; Harri- 
son Ford, 598; Marshall Neilan, 551; 
Eddie Lyons, 500 ; Louis Stone, 500 ; 
Louis Bennison, 453 ; Eddie Polo, 453 ; 
Henry G. Sell, 453 ; Elliott Dexter, 402 ; 
Tom Forman, 350; Bryant Washburn, 
350 ; Lon Chaney, 309 ; Robert Gordon, 
309; Cullen Landis, 309; Francis Mac- 
Donald, 309 ; King Vidor, 309 ; Webster 
Campbell, 248 ; Harold Lloyd, 248 ; 
Emery Johnson, 248; Milton Sills, 248; 
Owen Moore, 248 ; Monte Blue, 202 ; 
Lew Cody, 202 ; Wesley Barry, 202 ; Will 
Rogers, 202 ; Monroe Salisbury, 202 ; 
Robert Warwick, 202 ; Raymond Hatton, 
151 ; Theodore Roberts, 151 ; Charles 
Meredith, 151 ; Lee Moran, 151. 



When you find yourself before a 
news-stand, gazing up at the highly 
colored covers of the innumerable 
magazines, what impressions do 
you receive? 

What mental requirements form 
your purchase? 

In other words, what is it that 
you demand in a magazine? 

Is it literature which must be un- 
usual ? 

Is it artistic achievement in illus- 
tration ? 

Is it a pithy portrayal of current 
topics ? 

In short, is it a magazine dif- 
ferent ? 

In answer to this, we invite your 
attention to the August issue of 
The Motion Picture Classic. 

The newest star to be added to 
the Selznick constellation, Louise 
Huff, has been interviewed with the 
most piquant result, by Frederick 
James Smith. 

Much has been said of the fickle- 
ness of the public — Bryant Wash- 
burn, that idol of the pioneer days 
of the cinema, is still idol-ling, and, 
according to our interviewer, Maude 
S. Cheatham, he possesses all the 
fascination, and more, of his early 
days. 

Chet Withey, the man behind 
“Romance,” has been caught in an 
off moment and reveals to us the 
delightfully human side of a di- 
rector. 

The dark secret in the life of 
Mary Miles Minter, (she wrote 
with glorious abandon at the age of 
eight), has been told by B. F. Wil- 
son. There are reproductions of 
these literary outbursts which will 
interest you. 

And, altho we call your attention 
to the fact each month, yet there 
are certain truths which cannot be- 
come too evident, such as the nov- 
elizations, the portraits, the studio 
studies of the best beloved stars 
and the intimate chatter by “one 
who knows.” 

^ he = 

Motion Picture Classic 

175 Duffielcl St. Brooklyn, N. Y. 


Page Seventy-Three 


SUADOWUANO 



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and Music 

A delightful combination which brings many happy 
hours,— hearts filled with pleasant 
memories that make life worth while. 
It is ever so with music, — the medium 
of harmony, — the expression of our 
innermost emotions. 


Instruments 

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The New Art of Cam- 
era Painting 

( Continued from page 72) 

Mr. Muray is still young enough so 
that it may be said he is just beginning, 
but already his work has attracted un- 
usual notice. His use of shadow and 
light effects, in particular, is nothing 
short of revolutionary. The flesh in his 
pictures is quick , breathing, pulsating, 
not the blank, dead white stuff of the 
ordinary photograph. It is as tho his 
camera saw things that others do not, 
muscle masses, exquisitely and perfectly 
denoted by subtle shading, sensitive nerve 
filaments, all those tiny, inexplicable dif- 
ferentiations of line and texture that 
make a person’s face the interpreter of 
his thoughts. 

He makes no secret of his means for 
getting his effects. And they are sur- 
prisingly simple. In the steeply slanted 
roof of the studio is a skylight, divided 
into sections with curtains that may be 
pulled across each. By manipulating 
these curtains he is able to exclude all 
light which is not necessary to converge 
the high lights where he wishes. Instead 
of the painful white glare of ordinary 
photographic studios that gives the face 
and figure an unmodulated, hard dis- 
tinctness, he uses the same delicate shad- 
ings, sharp shadows and play of light 
and shade that the artist employs. His 
pictures have perspective, balance of 
lights and darks — and, above all, imagi- 
nation. 

“A photographer must see his picture 
before he takes it,” he says. “He must 
know what the camera will register as 
well before he presses the bulb as when 
the plate is developed. Not every expres- 
sion, every pose is a picture ; one must 
wait for the right one and know it when 
it comes.” 

There is none of the usual photo- 
graphic routine in Muray’s studio. He 
will not take a picture in a hurry. He 
must get acquainted with his sitter first. 
A picture — the right picture — is worth 
all the time it needs. He places his sub- 
ject in a chair before the proper back- 
ground, focuses the camera and seems to 
forget that there is a picture to be taken. 
I say seems, but Muray’s interest in the 
people he photographs is not a business 
matter, an affectation. One senses in- 
stantly that here is a man who is sym- 
pathetic, who understands, and the de- 
fensive armor of self-consciousness slips 
off unaware. 

He talks with his sitters, this rather 
poetic-looking, intensely vital young 
artist, with his acid-stained workman’s 
smock, flashing smile and friendly eyes. 
He studies the faces, the expressions and 
the personality revealed by them. The 
conversation is turned deftly to the par- 
ticular interests of the sitter: Batik em- 
broideries, perhaps, or it may be a new 
Packard car, and all the time he is wait- 
ing for the picture, the sudden turn of 
the head, lighting up of the eyes, tensing 
( Continued on page 81) 


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The August 

Motion Picture Magazine 

All good things come to those who wait 

And if you have waited for the August number 
of the Motion Picture Magazine, you will be 
rewarded by the prodigal abundance of good 
things it has to offer you. 

There’s the delightful story of the tete-a-tete which 
Adele Whitely Fletcher had with Alice Brady in 
her dressing-room at the theater. 

Doris Keane, that charming figure of dramatic art 
who has so successfully proven the desirability of 
"Romance” to two prosaic countries, England and 
America, has been captured by Gladys Hall for 
an interview of unusual interest. 

Our readers will be interested to a man, — (or to a 
woman) in the double-page display showing 
pictures of Mary Pickford in her home. 

There’s an interesting story on the relationship of 
music to the cinema; an interview with Grace 
Davison by Lillian Montanye; the novelizations of 
the best photoplays of the month; the most beauti- 
ful portraits of the players, and so forth, and so 
forth. We haven’t any more space in which to tell 
you — you will have to get this number for your 
own conviction. 

The Motion Picture Magazine 

175 DUFFIELD ST., BROOKLYN, N. Y. 


Page Seventy-Four 


Swa.dowla.no 


Wanted This Year 

A grave dearth of story plots nou) confronts the motion picture industry. 
Producers will pay you well for any suitable story -ideas. Literary ability 
not a prime factor. Learn how you can write for the screen. 

5000 New Story-Ideas for Motion Pictures 

The above figure does not include material needed for religious, commercial and educational films. 


S OMEWHERE in America this year, scores of 
new motion picture writers will be developed. 
(For the motion picture industry must have a 
continuous supply of good, new story-ideas if it is 
to survive.) 

Most of these new photoplaywrights will be men 
and women who never wrote a line for publication. 
They will be people with merely good ideas for 
stories, who are willing, during spare hours, to learn 
how picture directors want their plots laid out. Pro- 
ducers will pay them $100 to $500 each for clever 
comedies, and $250 to $2,000 each for five-reel dramatic 


scripts. They will pay these prices because they must 
have stories. 95% of book material is unsuited to their 
need, and as yet not enough people are writing for 
the screen to supply the demand. 

The above is a statement of fact concerning the 
motion picture industry. If you have a story-idea as 
good as some you have seen produced, this oppor- 
tunity is wide open to you. 

There is plenty of proof that producers really do pay 
the prices stated above. For they are paying these 
prices constantly to people we have taught to write for the 
screen — people who never saw a motion picture studio. 


In Two Short Years 

It was a little over two years ago when the famine in 
story plots first became acute. Public taste changed. 
Play-goers began to demand real stories. Plenty of man- 
uscripts were being submitted, but most were unsuitable. 
For writers did not know how to adapt their .stories for 
the screen. Few could come to Los Angeles to learn. 
A plan for home study had to be devised. 

Frederick Palmer (formerly staff writer of Keystone, 
Fox, Triangle and Universal), finally assembled a corps 
of experts who built a plan of study which new writers 
could master through correspondence. 

The Palmer Course and service has now been indorsed 
in writing by practically every big star and producer. 
Back of the Palmer Plan, directing this work in devel- 
oping new writers, is an advisory council composed of the 
biggest figures in the industry. It includes Cecil B. De- 
Mille, Director-General of Famous Players-Lasky Cor- 
poration; Thomas H. Ince, head of the Thomas H. Ince 
Studios; Lois Weber, America’s greatest woman pro- 
ducer and director; Rob Wagner, well known motion 
picture writer for the Saturday Evening Post. 

In two short years we have developed dozens of new 
writers. We are proud of the records they have made, 
and we prefer to let them speak for us. 

A Co-operative Plan — Not a Tedious Course 

Our business is to take people who have ideas for 
stories and teach them tc construct them in a way that 
meets a motion picture producer’s requirements. We 
furnish you the Palmer Handbook with cross references 
to three stories already successfully produced. The sce- 
narios come to you exactly as used by the directors. Also 
a glossary of studio terms and phrases, such as “Iris,” 
“Lap Dissolve,” etc. In short, we bring the studio to you. 

Our Advisory Service Bureau gives you personal, con- 
structive criticisms of your manuscripts — free and un- 
limited for one year. Criticisms come only from men 
experienced in studio staff writing. 

Special Contributors 

Twelve leading factors in the motion picture industry 
have contributed special printed lectures covering every 
phase of photoplay plot construction. Among others, 
these special contributors include : Frank Lloyd and Clar- 


Advisory 

Council 



Cecil B. DeMille 

Director-Gen. Famous 
Players-Lasky Corp. 



Thomas H. Ince 
of the Studio that 
bears his name 



Lois Weber 
America's greatest wo- 
man producer and di- 
rector 



Rob Wagner 
motion picture writer 
Saturday Evening Post 


ence Badger, Goldwyn directors; Jeanie MacPherson, 
noted Lasky scenario writer; Col. Jasper Ewing Brady, 
of Metro’s scenario staff; Denison Clift, Fox scenario 
editor; George Beban, celebrated actor and producer; 
A1 E. Christie, president Christie Film Co.; Hugh 
McClung, expert cinematographer, etc., etc. 

Our Marketing Bureau is headed by Mrs. Kate Corbaley, formerly 
photoplaywright for Mr. and Mrs, Sidney Drew. In constant touch 
with the studios, she knows their needs, so that when our members 
so desire, we submit their stories in person for them. Thus we not 
only train you to write; we help you to sell your story-ideas. 

$3,000 for One Story Plot 

Our members come from all walks of life; mothers with children 
to support, school teachers, clerks, newspaper men, ministers, busi- 
ness men, successful fiction writers. In short, we have proven that 
anyone with an average imagination and story-ideas can write 
successful photoplays once he is trained. 

One student, G. Leroi Clarke, formerly a minister, sold his first 
photoplay story for $3,000. The recent success of Douglas Fair- 
banks, “His Majesty the American,” and the play, “Live Sparks,” 
in which J. Warren Kerrigan lately starred, were both written by 
Palmer students. Many students now hold staff positions, four in 
one studio alone. 

We have prepared a book, “The Secret of Successful Photoplay 
Writing,” which will inform you of the Palmer Course and service 
in greater detail. If you desire to consider the unusual opportunity 
in this new field of art seriously — this book will be mailed to 
you free. 

At Least Investigate 

For there is one peculiar thing to consider in the Palmer Plan. 
One single successful effort immediately repays you for your work. 
Not all our members begin to sell photoplays at once — naturally. 
But most of them do begin to show returns within a few months. 
And the big majority are not literary folks. They are people who 
have simply made up their minds to make money out of story-ideas 
they have in the back of their heads — and incidentally, perhaps, to 
gain some reputation. 

The way is open. Producers are making every effort to encourage 
new writers. The demand is growing greater every day, and the 
opportunity is rich in its rewards because it is young. If seriously 
interested, mail the coupon. 

Palmer Photoplay Corporation 

Department cf Education 

715 I. W. Heilman Bldg., Los Angeles, Cal. 


Palmer Photoplay Corporation, Department of Education, 

715 I. W. Heilman Building, Los Angeles, California. 

Please send me, without obligation, your new book. “The Secret of Successful 
Photoplay Writing.” Also “Proof Positive” containing Success Stories of many 
Palmer members, etc. 

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Who Killed Cock Robin? 

( Continued from page 45) 


the melodramas of the red-ink brand 
have arrived at the conclusion that young 
Robin deserved his death. Such a thoro 
scoundrel was he, so devoid of honor 
and principle, especially toward women. 
He was a genuine menace to society and 
a particularly sinister menace, because 
his villainy was usually suave and well- 
concealed. Moreover, his youthful self- 
confidence was intolerable. Under the 
last circumstance not even a feminine 
jury would become sentimental over his 
removal. 

A glance at the theatrical chart of this 
season discloses almost a dozen “Who 
Killed Cock Robin?” plays. A happy 
variety is seen in the mechanical details 
with which they have been worked out. 
Some have had the audience guessing 
thru their entire action as to the identity 
of the murderer, while others have let 
the spectators in on the secret before the 
first act curtain. And there are murder 
plays in which there is no mystery. In 
such a class belongs “The Jest,” or “The 
Battle of the Barrymores,” as it is some- 
times called. In this gory drama, which 
Arthur Hopkins introduced to a palpi- 
tating public last spring, practically every 
crime in the De Medici calendar was 
committed. It was an undisguised revel 
of cruelty, subtle tho not always refined. 

There are other plays which, tho not 
dealing with murder, always seem on the 
point of it. In the latter class is “The 
Purple Mask,” which brought Leo Dit- 
richstein back to New York with the 
New Year. Leo as a daring desperado 
of the royalist faction in the Napoleonic 
era of France and Brandon Tynan as a 
detective attached to the republican 
forces have a merry chase thruout five 
acts of stirring cloak-and-dagger melo- 
drama. Bloody crime seems always just 
around the corner, but Leo and Brandon 
avert it by making the narrowest of 
escapes. 

The real, unadulterated gory trail of 
the present season was first scented in 
the latter part of July, when “At 9.45,” 
a product of the Owen Davis factory, 
was presented in William A. Brady’s 
showrooms in Forty-eighth Street. In 
this melodrama the author evolved a 
story in which every character was sus- 
pected of murder. It packed the theater 
for months and not even the actors’ 
strike could dim its appeal. Next June’s 
summaries of the season may call its pro- 
duction significant for this very reason 
and for the additional reason that it gave 
Mr. Brady an opportunity to be an actor 
for the first time in several years. 

George Broadhurst next took up the 
trail with “The Crimson Alibi,” a thrill- 
ing murder mystery which also at va- 
rious times implicated practically all the 
members of the cast. Cock Robin in this 
case was an exception to the rule. He 
was an old man — oh, very, very old, but 
ever so lecherous. He got what he de- 
served by the means of a dagger, and all 


that the audience saw of the assassin was 
the hand that held the dagger. The un- 
raveling of the mystery proved as adroit 
as it was exciting. 

A. H. Woods was not long in getting 
started. He presented “The Voice in the 
Dark,” by an unknown playwright 
named Ralph Dyar, at the Republic, and, 
like its predecessors, it aroused marked 
public interest. It introduced two novel 
characters in a deaf woman and a blind 
man who were witnesses at a murder 
trial, the first testifying as to what she 
had seen, the latter telling what he had 
heard. Mr. AVoods did not stop with 
this production. He presented Marjorie 
Rambeau in “The Unknown Woman,” 
in which a suicide took place, but which 
was made to seem a murder thru the 
ingenuity of the villain. “The Sign on 
the Door,” the latest Woods offering, 
discloses the murder of Lowell Sherman, 
a very audacious and self-assertive Cock 
Robin, at 10 p. m. promptly at evening 
performances and 4 p. m. sharp at mati- 
nees. 

Cohan and Harris can always be relied 
upon for a good, rousing melodrama in 
which no crime less than murder is com- 
mitted. They are represented at present 
with an unusually skilful example by 
Rita Wieman, called “The Acquittal,” in 
which a newspaper man proves himself a 
capital detective. John D. Williams of- 
fered “For the Defense,” by Elmer E. 
Rice, who, under the longer name of 
Reizenstein, contributed “On Trial” some 
seasons back. This play made use of 
the familiar flash-back, borrowed from 
the movies, which Reizenstein introduced 
in “On Trial.” It won steady patronage 
by means of its effective scenes, which 
showed a district attorney under the 
strain of choosing between love and duty. 

Then there is “Smilin’ Through,” by 
Allan Langdon Martin, in which the ac- 
cidental murder of Jane Cowl takes 
place. But Miss Cowl cannot be re- 
pressed. She comes back as a gorgeous 
ghost with a watchful eye upon the love 
affairs of her niece. And who is the 
niece? Why, Jane Cowl. 

“Abraham Lincoln” shows the assassi- 
nation of the President in Ford’s Thea- 
ter, Washington. “John Ferguson” had 
a tensely discussed Irish murder in it. 
Gorki’s “Night Lodging” contained all 
kinds of criminals at that hotbed of 
criminology, the Plymouth Theater. 
Murder is avoided by the narrowest of 
margins in “The Storm,” Langdon Mc- 
Cormick’s scenic melodrama, at the 
Forty-eighth Street Theater. 

And now we find playwrights extend- 
ing, as it were, the gory trail into the 
spirit world. They are putting their 
audiences thru the third degree of Sir 
Oliver Lodge, to borrow an apt phrase, 
and the audiences seem to enjoy the ex- 
perience. The revival in the belief of 
supposed spirit manifestations which the 
( Continued on page 80) 


Page Seventy-Six 






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Page Seventy-Seven , 



Sw AD OWL AND 




Second Prize 


Fourth Prize 


Third 


Prize 


Ninth Prize 


'HE new Popu- 
larity Contest, 
unusual and en- 
tertaining, is already 
the object of great 
interest — unfailing 
and rife. If you 
have entered it or 
have read the announcements 
which have appeared, and will ap- 
pear, from time to time, containing 
the rules and regulations, you 
know it is actually a double con- 
test — a contest in which both the 


Popularity Contest 
Awards 


Sixth Prize 


FIRST PRIZE 

Crescent Phonograph, piano mahogany finish 
(value $160). Plays all makes of disc records: 
Victor, Columbia, Pathe, Edison, Emerson, etc., 
without the use of extra attachments or intricate 
adjustments ; a simple turn of the sound-box is 
all that is necessary in changing from a lateral 
cut record to playing a hill and dale cut record. 

A Crescent owner can enjoy a repertoire of 
the greatest opera singers, popular songs, dance 
music or anything that is turned out of the 
disc record. The tone of the Crescent is full, 
round, deep and mellow. It has a large com- 
partment for records. 


SECOND PRIZE 

Movette Camera and 
three packages of films 
(value $65). Compact, 
light, efficient, easily op- 
erated. Think of the 
possibilities during your 
vacation trip ■ — your 
canoe trip — in pictures 
— pictures of your family or friends— living pic- 
tures that you can project at any time in your 
home. A priceless record of your life. 

THIRD PRIZE 

Corona Typewriter with case, (value $50) ; an 
all-round portable typewriter, light enough and 
small enough to be carried anywhere, and strong 
enough to stand any possible condition of travel. 
It is trim and symmetrical and does not give 
one’s study the atmosphere of a business office. 
Fold it up and take it with you anywhere. 



FOURTH PRIZE 

Sheaffer “Giftie” Combination Set, consisting 
of a Sheaffer Fountain Pen and a Sheaffer 
Sharp-Point Pencil, in a handsome plush-lined 
box. Gold filled, warranted twenty years. Can- 
not blot or leak. A beautiful and perfect writ- 
ing instrument. 

FIFTH PRIZE 

Bristol steel Casting Rod agate guide, cork 
grip, strong and durable. Packed in linen case. 
Can be easily put in traveling bag. 

SIXTH PRIZE 

Loughlin Safety Self-Filling Fountain Pen. 
No extensions to remember, no locks to forget. 

SEVENTH PRIZE 

Star Vibrator, handsomely finished in nickel 
plate with three attachments. Alternating cur- 
rent. Excellent for massage. Use it in your 
own home. 

EIGHTH PRIZE 

Same as Seventh Prize. 

NINTH PRIZE 

Marble nickel-plated pocket axe of tool steel, 
carefully tempered and sharpened. Indispens- 
able in camp or woods. 


public and players are equally in- 
terested. 

The prizes depicted above and 
below were selected after much 
careful thought and attention and 
each one is destined to make some 
one happier, from the beautiful 
Crescent phonograph which sug- 
gests a twilight hour with the 
gems musical genii have given to 
the world, to the Marble nickel- First 
plated axe which brings to mind 
a jolty time in some invitingly 
green woodland. 

Perhaps you have not yet de- 
cided to enter the contest — if not 
do so now. Dont lose an oppor- 
tunity of enjoying the unique en- 
tertainment it affords or of captur- 
ing one of the lovely and useful 
awards. 


Prize 


Page Seventy-Eight 




SWADOWLAND 


Greatest of All Popularity Contests 

Unique Competition in Which the Voters Share in the Prizes 

WHO IS THE ONE GREAT STAR OF THE SCREEN? 

Is it CHARLIE CHAPLIN or ELSIE FERGUSON? 

Is it RICHARD BARTHELMESS or WILLIAM S. HART? 

Concerning this matter there is great difference of opinion. Every fan, in fact, has his own idol. The Wall 
Street broker swears by MARY PICKFORD ; his wife thinks TOM MIX is the best actor the cinema has 
produced; the office boy has a “crush” on THEDA BARA and the stenographer collects photographs of 
DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS. 

What do you think? If you had a vote would you give it to NAZIMOVA or to LILLIAN GISH? Would 
you vote for a man or a woman or for little BEN ALEXANDER? 

SHADOWLAND, MOTION PICTURE MAGAZINE, and MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC— the three 

great magazines of the motion picture world — have decided to refer this question to their readers by taking 
a popular, world-wide vote. In regard to matters concerning the stage and theater their audience is the most 
intelligent and discerning; the most wide-awake and well-informed in the world today. If any picture 
patrons can pick out the leading star, it will be those who read SHADOWLAND, the MAGAZINE and 
CLASSIC. 

The coupons will show you how to enter your own name and the name of your favorite player. But you 
may vote on an ordinary sheet of paper in Class Number 2 provided you make the ballot the same size 
and follow the wording of this coupon. We prefer the printed coupons for uniformity and convenience in 
counting. 

There will be prizes for voters and prizes for stars. 

Votes registered in Class Number 1 will probably be cast by favor. Votes registered in Class Number 2 
will call for a wide knowledge of the Motion Picture business, keen powers of perception and skill at de- 
tecting the trend of popular favor. You cannot guess the winner offhand. 


RULES OF THE CONTEST 


1. The contest began on December 1, 1919, and will close on 

September 30, 1920. 


2 . 


There will be ten ballots as follows: 


December 

January 

February 

March 

April 


1919 ballot 

1920 ballot 
1920 ballot 
1920 ballot 
1920 ballot 


May 

June 

July 

August 

September 


1920 ballot 
1920 ballot 
1920 ballot 
1920 ballot 
1920 ballot 


3 . The result of each month’s ballot will be published in each one of 

our magazines the second month following such ballot. 

4. No votes will be received prior to the opening date or after the 

date of closing. 

5 . Each person entering the contest and observing the rules thereof 

shall have the privilege of voting once in each class, each month, 
for each one of our magazines. You may send us one vote in 
each class for Shadowland every month, and the same for 
Motion Picture Magazine and yet again the same for Classic. 
Thus, you will have three votes in Class No. 1 each month, and 
three votes in Class No. 2 each month. 


Class Number 1 


Class Number 2 

SHADOWLAND, MAGAZINE and CLASSIC: 

175 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 


SHADOWLAND, MAGAZINE and CLASSIC: 

175 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

I consider 

the most popular player in the entire field of Motion 
Pictures. 


I believe that 

will win the Big Three Popularity Contest with 

Name 


Name 

Street 


Street 

City 



State 


State 

Country 


Country 

(Dated) 


(Dated) 


Remember! This is the greatest player contest in history. 


Page Seventy-Nine 



$WADOWLA.ND 






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WANTED — 100 NEW FACES for the Movies 

Did it ever occur to you that you might be sitting in the theater, 
watching yourself on the silversheet, instead of watching somebody else? 

We have a little booklet entitled “WHO CAN AND WHO CAN- 
NOT GET INTO THE MOVIES” 
and maybe you will find in this just 
why you are sitting in the theater 
instead of playing on the silversheet. 

Cut out the following coupon and 
with 5c. in stamps mail to us. 


THE NATIONAL MOTION PICTURE INSTITUTE 
173-175-177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

Please send me a copy of your booklet, “Who 
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Why?” Enclosed is 5 cents in stamps for mailing. 


Name. . . 
Address. 


Page Eighty 


Who Killed Cock 
Robin? 

( Continued from page 76) 

war has occasioned has found represen- 
tation on the stage, providing an uncanny 
but for the most part thrilling atmos- 
phere to melodramas of the underworld. 

In such a category belong Fred Jack- 
son’s “The Hole in the Wall” and Crane 
Wilbur’s “The Ouija Board,” both of 
which are excellent products of an im- 
agination that would present a new and 
mysterious twist to the crook melo- 
dramas. 

John Barrymore as Richard III mur- 
ders his way to a kingdom and to King- 
dom Come at the Plymouth Theater. 
No melodramatics of the conventional 
sort here. Instead, cruel, subtle intrigues 
of a gory era in English history when 
decapitating swords and axes flourished. 
The bloody conquest of the races — the 
French race and also the Barrymore 
race — is continued at the Criterion in 
“The Letter of the Law,” Brieux’s at- 
tack on the courts, in which a cynical and 
ambitious magistrate is murdered by the 
peasant woman whose life he has ruined 
by unjust legal procedures. 

So it goes — up and down the Rialto. 
One would be justified in saying that it’s 
a nice night for a murder — almost any 
night in the Broadway theaters. 

But is there not a day of sweetness and 
light, of “Pollyanna,” approaching? 
Most assuredly. For, after all, murder 
will out. 

•111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111 iiiiiiiiiiiiimmimiiiiiiiii 

The Mirror 

( Continued from page 70) 

{Saida with her eyes upon him, slowly 
shakes her head.) 

Haveneth {picking up the Egyptian 
beads from the floor)— You had put on 
your Egyptian beads; do you remember? 
{She nods.) And I told you how we 
believe in the East that when two souls 
have lived thru many lifetimes together, 
sometimes moments of recognition come 
to them when they can catch glimpses of 
their past lives. You have forgotten — it 
is slipping from me like a dream. But 
the bond remains. You are mine, you 
have always been mine. We know that 
in our souls. 

Saida — We have only just met. 

Haveneth {with a slow significance, 
taking both of her hands)- — We have 
known each other a thousand years. 

{The Japanese servant, drawing back 
the curtain announces from the door- 
way) : 

Servant — Judge Blair will see Mr. 
Haveneth. 

{Haveneth, dropping Saida’s hands, 
stands looking down at her as she sits 
under the Buddha between the tall, 
lighted candles, looking ahead with 
dreaming eyes. The Japanese servant 
waits in the doorway.) 

{Curtain) 






Helen MacKellar: Stage Find of 1920 

( Continued from page 25) 


and thrilling adventure. It makes life 
wonderful.” 

She told me that the past year has 
been, for her, wonderful. She has been 
doing “The Storm,” which has been so 
eminently successful and, while it was 
merely giving special matinees, she was 
playing in “Beyond the Horizon” with 
Richard Bennett, which satisfied her 
artistically. 

“That is real happiness,” she told me, 
“real satisfaction — to be successful in 
the eyes of the world, as ‘The Storm’ 
was, for instance, and, at the same time, 
to be doing the thing which satisfies 
yourself, your own need of expres- 
sion . . . ‘Beyond the Horizon’ did that 
for me. I loved doing it. It was a most 
wonderful experience.” 

I asked her what she thought “Beyond 
the Horizon” was meant to convey by 
way of a message. There were so many 
things, so many themes it might be said 
to suggest. 

“A square peg in a round hole,” she 
said, “simply that. All of the people in 
that play might very well, very easily, 
have been happy, harmonious, adequately 
successful, each according to his kind. 
It proves the tragedies we may become 
if we are thrown out of our proper 
spheres. We become distorted, out of 
character, destroyed. If I were a school 
teacher, for example ...” She shud- 
dered, delicately . . . 

“Do you think,” I asked, “that there 
was meant to be any hope signified at 
the end of the play?” 

“None,” she said, “none whatever. I 
spent sleepless nights before the play in 
the fear that I might not give to the 
character of Mary the tonelessness, the 
all-goneness I felt it called for. No, 
everything was gone, for all of them, 
everything.” 

“Do you think,” I asked, “that life is 
ever so cruel ?” 

There was a narrowing of the very 
blue eyes. “Yes,” she said. 

I asked her her ambition, profession- 
ally. I knew that she would have one. 
A visionary with a college training would 
have. 

The visionary came to the fore. 

“It is to play Barrie,” she said; “I do 
wish that I could. I have always longed 
to. I love his whimsicality, his wistful- 
ness, his delicacies. I feel that I could 
really give interpretations worthy of 
him.” 

“Do you think that you shall, even- 
tually ?” 

Miss MacKellar clasped her hands 
about her knee and penetrated the inex- 
plicable future with her eyes. She has a 
way of doing that. So might she have 
sat in her freshman days at college with 
some chosen comrade sketching out the 
triumphal progress to the pinnacle where 
hangs the budding laurel. 

“Do you know,” she said, “I have 
found out that I get just about what I 
want by wanting that thing hard enough, 
and then keeping on wanting it and 
thinking about it, and then, all at once, 


it comes to me. That sounds like ego- 
ism, and it’s probably mere luck, but it 
has worked out that way thus far.” 

Helen MacKellar has the power of 
thought and knows how to apply it. 

She has the will to do . . . and she 
does. 

She has youth. 

She has a characteristic beauty, not 
dependent upon feature but upon the ani- 
mating spirit within. 

She has individuality. 

There is something of the description 
Henley gave of R. L. S. applicable to 
her: “A deal of Ariel, just a streak of 
Puck, much Antony, of Hamlet most of 
all, and something of the Shorter Cate- 
chist.” 

iiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiimmiiiiiiiimimmmmmiiiimiiiiiiiiiimmiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiimiminiiMHiiiinii 

The New Art of Cam- 
era Painting 

( Continued from page 74) 

of the muscles, that shall best express 
the real soul of the man or woman be- 
fore him. No one whose photograph he 
takes knows when it is taken. 

When some outside circumstance in- 
tervenes to prevent a sitter from reveal- 
ing his real personality, Muray’s knowl- 
edge of facial muscles enables him to 
move the face of the picture itself into 
the desired expression. For example, one 
woman who came for a portrait study 
wished to be taken smiling, but a recent 
bereavement had saddened her so that 
she was totally unable to smile naturally. 
Her picture was taken, sober and care- 
worn, but when it came from the artist’s 
hands the lips were curving, the whole 
face lighted up with her old, joyous 
smile ! 

Not all of his work is character por- 
traiture. His purely decorative compo- 
sitions — studies of the nude and picto- 
rial photographs — are strikingly fresh in 
their imaginative power. Here the artist 
instinct in Muray is given free play. 
Whether it is an exuberant naked child 
figure with the joyous vigor of a wild 
fawn or Washington Arch seen on a 
night of rain, his photographs have all 
the quality, composition and shadings of 
paintings, an illusion which he sometimes 
heightens by printing them by a method 
of his own invention giving the effect of 
a canvas background. 

“Most photographers take pictures the 
hardest way it can be done,” he says. “I 
take them in the simplest way. The 
background that obtrudes, the costume 
that distracts the attention, the artificial 
pose, these I hate. They smother the 
personality and the portrait is worthless ; 
they ruin the composition and the picture 
is a jumble and not art.” 

Keats said it in other words : “Beauty 
is Truth, Truth, Beauty, this is all ye 
know or need to know.” So believes 
Nicholas Muray. His photographs are 
planned to reveal instead of assume, to 
interpret rather than flatter. And they 
are art because they show us the beauty 
their creator sees in the thing he pictures. 



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DO IT TODAY 

Tomorrow will always be 24 hours too late 

You have been thinking a good deal of late about 
the other fellow ‘s luck — and your misfortune. You 
read or heair about some good fortune that has 
fallen to someone, and you immediately exclaim: 
“What luck! If I only had his chance! ” 

This man ’s so-called luck consisted of persistency 
and study. He used today’s time to get ready for 
tomorrow’s work. When he reached the top every- 
body called it luck. 

This same luck is open to you. The American Col- 
lege is ready to help you. Are you ready to be 
helped? 

Send jor our free OPEN DOOR booklet 



175 DUFFIELD STREET BROOKLYN, N. Y. 

We Believe in Everybody Who Believes in Himself 


Page Eighty-One 






SwA.DOWLA.NQ 


Page Eighty-Two 


THE WILLIAM G. HEWITT fRESl 
61-67 NAVY STREET 
BROOKLYN, N. Y. 


This photograph shows the group of final winners and honor-roll members of last year’s contest. 

The Fame and Fortune Contest of 1920 

being held by The Motion Picture Magazine, The Motion Picture Classic, and Shadowland, is the biggest 
and best opportunity ever offered you to realize your screen ambition. 

Think of the opportunity which will be given you this year ! “Love’s Redemption” is the title of the five- 
reel feature play that is being produced by us, which will include many of the contestants of the 1920 Fame 
and Fortune Contest. Blanche McGarity and Anetha Getwell, winners of last year’s contest, have been 
chosen to play leading parts. Dorian Romero has been selected as the “heavy.” Edward Chalmers, Alfred 
L. Rigali, Dorothy Taylor, Seymoure Panish, Joseph Murtaugh, Lynne Berry, Arthur W. Tuthill, William 
Castro, Hammer Brothers, Clarence Linton, Bunty Manly, Erminie Gagnon, have also been assigned parts. 
Among the distinguished men who will probably take part in the play are Edwin Markham, the great poet; 
Hudson Maxim, the famous inventor; James J. McCabe, District Superintendent of Public Schools, New 
York City, and Judge Frederick E. Crane of the Court of Appeals of New York State. Each issue of every 
one of our several publications will hereafter contain interesting news of the progress of the play. 


SHADOWLAND ENTRANCE COUPON 

Name 

Address (street 

(city) (state 

Previous stage or screen experience in detail, if any 


When born Birthplace 

Eyes (color) Hair (color) 

Complexion 

Do you want to take part in the Five-Reel Feature Drama?. 


RULES FOR 1920 CONTESTANTS 

Contestants shall submit one or more portraits. On the back of each 
photo an entrance coupon must be pasted, or a similar coupon of your own 
making. 

Post-card pictures, tinted photographs and snapshots not accepted. 
Photographs will not be returned to the owner. 

Contestants should not write letters regarding the contest, as it will be 
impossible to answer them. All rules will be printed in all three magazines. 

Photos should be mailed to CONTEST MANAGER, 175 Duffield St., 
Brooklyn, N. Y. Send as many as you like. 

The contest is open to every one, except those who have already played 
prominent screen or stage roles. 

Contest closes August 1, 1920, but photos mailed on that day will be 
accepted.